Basic B*tch

Ciara O’Connor

On hangovers

I remember my first

hangover. I was in the first wide-eyed bloom of youth. It was the day after a McFly concert, which I had gone to totally ironically, and then, also ironically, got James from McFly to sign my arm. He was the least traditionally handsome member of McFly, but as a weird-looking kid myself, I felt a certain kinship with him. He wasn’t the most obvious candidate for a crush — a Niall Horan type — but I worked hard at cultivating one, anyway; the worst thing a teenage girl can do is be predictable. That night, the air was sweet, and the 7Up we poured the naggin into was sweeter.

But nothing was as sweet as the following day at school, making much ado over the sore heads, and only dying for someone to ask what was wrong. In retrospect, I respect the religion teacher immensely for not taking the bait, as we roared at him for talking too loudly and made beds out of coats. Obviously, if I could go back in time and smack us, I would.

Of course, we didn’t have hangovers at all: we were a bit tired. We liked the idea of them, the romance of headaches and sunglasses; the mystery and indecency of Bloody Marys, whatever they were. We yearned for hangovers.

They say that youth is wasted on the young. It’s because they can’t drink, but they’re immune to hangovers. It’s a cruel joke.

This morning, millions of legal adults will be waking up in a fug of green glitter, Guinness and existential dread. We will have the kind of hangovers that see us pour a glass of water directly onto our faces in bed, because we can’t lift our heads. The kind where you google ‘can you die from a hangover?’. The kind where you puke into the top drawer of your bedside table, close it again, and roll over — that’s a problem for future-you.

But don’t despair: it won’t be as bad as next Patrick’s Day. It’s only older we’re getting.