Final Grumpy Kulture - The Hangover

This post was supposed to be on Friday but I figured that Easter Sunday would be a bit more appropriate. After all, this is the day that Jesus woke up in a cave with big holes in his hands and feet, a splitting headache and very likely wondering what the hell had just happened. Don’t worry Jesus. We’ve all been there.

Why, on Friday, while drunk, I attempted some humour on here and after a few emails realized that no one was getting the joke. (After re-reading it while sober, I wasn’t sure how I expected anyone to.) So I removed the post. If only real life was so easy. Our shameovers, unfortunately, are much more difficult to deal with. But they’re a part of life. And we must admit that if we live in a drinking culture we also live in a hungover culture.

The hangover is the horrible child of our best moments. It is like the best sex in the world resulting in the worst children. You finally get the girl of your dreams, it’s better than you could ever imagine but your coupling gives birth to Stalin. Some people seem to think this is justice. I regard it as evidence of the Universe’s fundamental cruelty. Nature abhors a good time.

We don’t like to discuss our hangovers. Being bent over a toilet or groaning in bed is hardly considered a fitting experience to relate over dinner. While our drunkenness occurs in public our hangovers are private affairs, perhaps shared with good friends, loved ones and family. You know, the people who always get the short end of the stick.

Hangovers are some of the most disgusting and self loathing moments any of us will ever experience. Sometimes the pain can be bad; bad enough to drive the best of us to making irresponsible oaths. From swearing off the bottle, promising to never disparage the parentage of large strangers or to never hang from the balcony by one’s feet while singing a collection of Scottish folk songs, is there any lie our toilets have not patiently listened to? Are they any that they’ve actually believed?

This combination of shame, pain and secrecy is a gold mind for quacks. Like every cure for impotence before Viagra, every cure for the hangover is a sham. There are various things that can sometimes help but there is no silver bullet. Of course, like gamblers with a system, every drunkard has a guaranteed remedy. There’s the tylenol and water before bed, the pineapple in the morning, greasy food and Hangover Helper. Some poor, cowardly souls have gone far enough to recommend abstinence. Some swear by hair of the dog, although it is not a cure but a delay; a sort of credit system for your body that charges exorbiant interest rates.

There are too many alleged cures to recommend any one of them. If you do anything while drunk you are guaranteed that someone, somewhere, considers it a cure for the hangover. But, like most things it’s all just dumb luck. The best thing to do is to know that you’re not alone and wait. Soon enough that divine moment will come: You will be able to eat. That’s the turning point. And, quite often, it is the best pizza you’ve ever had.