The party hangovers that even time can’t wipe away

Only four days to go before you heave your liver in the direction of Hogmanay, so if you are under 30, then please do party on.

Shine on, you crazy diamonds, because you are still young enough to be in the zone where two Ibuprofen, a can of Irn-Bru and a bacon sandwich can repair the damage.

After the age of 35, however, the drinking gauntlet thrown down by Hogmanay may reduce you to a whimpering, shivering wreck, convinced you have norovirus and begging your loved ones to finish you off with a frying pan.

I used to be a party animal: if there was a party, I was there in my best ankle-twisting high heels and I did not leave until it was over. Even then, I did not always leave. Sometimes the people who threw the party, if they wanted to get rid of the tall woman with a gait like a mule on a hot plate, had to move house.

This is why before throwing myself into the winter party season, I try to run through my top three worstever drunken stories.

The first concerns Paul, who went to a party, met a young lady, and took her home to examine the décor of his rented accommodation.

Despite being plastered himself, he managed to remember the keycode for the flat, and tiptoed along the hallway to the bedroom in the dark with his new friend.

Imagine the terror when he woke the following morning to realise where he was – and that he and his housemate had moved out of the place six months earlier.

Then there was my friend Julie, who landed a Press trip to a popular theme park and took full advantage of the free bar the night she arrived.

By 5am, she had moved on to doing shots of absinthe because it was the only alcohol left.

At 8am, bilious and baggy-eyed, she was hauled out of her hotel room by an irate publicist and plonked on the Press bus.

The route was long and winding, so when the coach finally parked up, Julie quietly congratulated herself on not throwing up.

Then she checked the schedule, and realised that the first stop on the itinerary was testing out the park’s new supersized roller coaster.

Only an idiot would go camping in the Australian Outback on her own, so that’s exactly what I did in WE might be done with 2016, but apparently it isn’t done with us. This year’s winners: Donald Trump, Nigel Farage, Death. From now on George Michael’s hit song Last Christmas is loaded with an unfortunate irony, but what’s touching about the early tributes to Michael is how many stories relate to his secret gifts of charity; donating royally to famine relief, Aids research, children’s funds and homeless shelters. Pointless co-host Richard Osman recalls that when he produced Deal or No Deal, a contestant on the show talked about needing £15k for IVF treatment. The next day Michael called the show and gave her the money. I slightly love the image of George, in his uniform of shades and black jeans and manicured hair, watching Deal or No Deal. And I know that some may shrug and say ‘Well, he could afford it, with all his millions’. But not everyone in his position has a social conscience and George Michael, pictured, did more than just give to charity, he gave money thoughtfully, generously and without fuss. This is the man whose song Praying For Time dismissed the idea that ‘charity is a coat you wear twice a year’. He didn’t just write

that, he lived it. Queensland. And only a complete fool would accept the offer of homemade vodka from one of the other campers. So I did that too. Much, much later that night, groping my way around my tent, I plunged my hand into my washbag for some earplugs, and discovered my expensive moisturiser had burst.

Determined not to waste the excess, I rubbed it in all over my face and hands and went to sleep.

When I emerged in the morning, I looked as if I had been nibbled by mice, because the exploded item was in fact a tube of depilatory cream.

So now I raise a glass of alcoholfree Shirley Temple to you, dear readers.

I do hope your Hogmanays are less hair-raising or at least that you end 2016 in full possession of eyebrows.