Regrets and cheap wine

In his time, Donal Lynch has had some epic nights out, but the mornings after have been even more memorable — for the wrong reasons

Ahangover needn’t actually be such a terrible thing. The artist Damien Hirst, whose benders would go on for days, used to insist that the comedown was “the best bit”. And, given the right conditions

— hugs, tea, decent telly and possibly the company of your fellow debauchees

— you can mostly wallow in your own crapness and avoid thoughts of suicide.

Where the absolute horror really begins is when you have to do something the next day. These days, when I am tempted to live for the night, I recall three key activity-heavy hangovers, all of which scarred me, and which may serve as a warning to others.

Gents rehab

1) Dublin, 1999. This was a perfect storm of first work do, a young liver and complete fecklessness. I started early at home, necking gulps of whiskey and Coke, while slathering my head in Dax wax and dousing myself in Jean Paul Gaultier.

When I arrived, I was told there was an open bar, which I took as a kind of challenge. At one point I walked into a glass door, thinking it was “just air”. I knew I was still drunk the next morning because I was making wisecracks to myself in the bathroom mirror. The real fear only began around lunchtime in work, when I started to sober up. I had to retire to the jacks, where I alternately retched and used a bog roll as a pillow. But I was young. I was still in the bounce-back zone. A few good nights’ sleep and I was out drinking again, unlike...

2) Colorado, 2007. I was there to report on... something. I want to say “the beautiful views” — that sounds about right — but after the PR had brightly reminded everyone that we would be meeting in the lobby at 7am, things quickly took a turn for the unwholesome. I dutifully retired to my room and suddenly felt a thumping sensation vibrating the bedside glass of water, like in

Jurassic Park when the T-rex is about to pounce. Alarmed, I flung open the curtains and saw a football-pitch-sized crowd of gay men dancing their asses off. Denver Pride!

Alarm swiftly receding, sense of pride rising, I didn’t quite crowd dive from the balcony, but I did very quickly push 7am to the very recesses of my consciousness. Cocktails were consumed, and I took up the offer of an attractive yet drunk Coloradan to drive me back to my hotel on the grounds that it would be ‘romantic’ and not ‘one of the most dangerous things I’ve ever done’.

I rather ruined the mood by slightly puking in his car on the way, and I swayed across the lobby, alone, sizing up several hotel doors before I settled on mine.

The next morning I got a sharp call from the PR, reminding me that we were due to visit a distillery. Her voice trailed off as I replaced the receiver and wondered if room service would extend to “just finishing me off with a shovel”.

I’ll never learn

3) London, 2013. Old enough to know better by now, surely? Oh no. It was a lads weekend away that began with rambunctious mixers on the plane and a civilised bottle of wine each at dinner, but then we learned the groundbreaking news that they have lock-ins in London, too. When we got there, we were already at the ‘piling into a rickshaw’ level of well-gone.

Getting back to the hotel was blearily outsourced to others. I woke to the sound of myself whining like a dog. My legs hurt — this is something to do with alcohol poisoning and circulation. The horror of having to get to Gatwick was ahead of me. The vibe at departures was like when you see American soldiers’ bodies being repatriated back to the naval base in coffins. The only tiny glimmer of hope I held out was that I hadn’t died in vain. I would remember this pain forever

— and, this time, I really meant it.

“I wondered would room service extend to just finishing me off with a shovel”