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| Pretty much how the inside of my head feels, and LIFE'S NOT FAIR |
So, I go into this New Year with a virus that comes with all
the symptoms of having a hangover, only without the joy of drinking alcohol in
the first place.
This is the sort of thing that goes to prove that a) there
is a God, and b) he's a big fan of making life as miserable as possible for us
atheists.
Also, everything I eat tastes and smells of fish, which
probably means some kind of hideous neurological disorder, rather than the more likely outcome: Using my
hands to dole out the dog's fish-and-rice dinner which he eats only as a last
resort.
The only problem with this is that the not-hangover arrived
on the afternoon of New Year's Eve, and settled in rather nicely, meaning that
I was absolutely unwilling to join in with the festivities even if I wanted to.
Alas, for the stay-at-home types, New Year's Eve television
is more of a punishment than a celebration, and the end-of-year viewing is a
toss-up between Gary Barlow and Jools Holland's Hootenanny. Music's Mr Dull vs
a guarantee of a piano being played in a honky-tonk style does not a Happy New Year make.
It's been years since I had a proper wanton New Year
celebration. OK, decades. It's not that I've grown old and boring, it's just
that after the events of (I think) 1987/1988 and the week-long recovery that
entailed, my body has developed an allergy to the last day of the year and
invents illnesses that mean I am physically unable to take part in any booze-fuelled
celebration.
Most years, this manifests itself as a can't-be-arsed
lethargy and an entirely logical revulsion at fancy dress costumes. Only
recently has this become actual illness. My total Christmas alcohol intake –
for the record – has been a selection of fine wines over the festive period,
and a rather good, peaty single malt courtesy of the in-laws.
If only I had taken regular infusions of this impressive
whiskey, I might have burned out the badness and considered roaming the streets of Fleet dressed as Dr Harold Shipman.Which I do most nights of the year anyway. It's a hobby.
So, woe is me.
The consolation is that things can only get better. I have not yet been sick in my own shoes so far in 2014, for example, so I've still got that one over 1988.
The consolation is that things can only get better. I have not yet been sick in my own shoes so far in 2014, for example, so I've still got that one over 1988.
".....My total Christmas alcohol intake – for the record – has been a selection of fine wines over the festive period, and a rather good, peaty single malt courtesy of the in-laws......"
ReplyDeleteWhy there's your problem, Duck, you're not physiologically 'conditioned' for such posh nectar(s) of the gods. Best you stick to concoctions more commensurate with some of the lesser known deities.
At Tesco, Bottles of Stella Artois, the 5 per cent alcohol lager dubbed "wife beater", are on offer for the equivalent of £1 a pint. Duty and VAT are at least 55p per pint.
Better still, less than 70p a pint for Strongbow cider and Carling lager.
Your body will thank you. No sense adopting airs above your station ifin' it's gonna make you sick. Innit?