Hangovers are no longer just about pain

Hangovers, unlike fine wine, get worse with age. This is a fact. If you disagree then you are clearly under 30, in which case shut up and get your white eyeballs away from me. People do warn you. “I just can’t do it anymore,” I recall a few tired-looking mature friends saying to me once or twice when I implored them to stay and order another bottle of wine, or go to some dire club to drink more primary coloured pints of cider. “Wimps”, I thought.

But even though I heard the prophesies, I never expected the day would come when I would not be able to stay out drinking shots with names that sound like weapons of mass destruction until 4am, and still get up in time for work with porcelain skin, shiny eyes and a wagging bushy tail. But that day has come. Hangovers are no longer just about physical pain; they can’t be fixed with a bottle of Lucozade and a bagel. Now, along with the blistering pain in my temples, the searing headache, the watery chops and dog mouth, there comes a haunting feeling of impending doom, as if, should you get up to go and dry-retch in the bathroom again at work, everyone will know.

Then there’s the self-loathing, “Why did I agree to drinks on a Monday? I have the willpower of a gnat — when will I learn?” In this stage, known as Hangover Level 2, the brain puke is often followed by an important decision. Yes, now is the time to decide on becoming a teetotal Pioneer. I often take this oath so seriously I email my booze-hound friends to inform them I am henceforth only available if they want a companion to a literary event or musical recital. They doubtless think “tosh” but because they are good people, neglect to mention it the following night when I text them ‘Drinkie?’ Followed by a champagne bottle emoji.