Being a Theory on the Hang-Over and its Cause
besides the furry teeth I don't really have much evidence of this
Christmas, being just past, has left me with a somewhat debilitated system due to a surfeit of parties and dead geese. Not that it wasn't fun at the time, but I got some rotten hangovers.
Know that cheap beer you get in Lidl? Very tasty but lacking in essential minerals and vitamins, or something. It's odd that I can never nip the hangovers in the bud, though - preempt them, as it were, because the parties that lead to them always unfold the same way. We all agree to meet up in someone's gaff on Saturday, upon which day someone suddenly says "Are yez coming down the pub to watch the match?"
Munster v Leinster? No way we could miss that! Getting a couple in before kickoff means we've to be in the pub by two, so, there we are, drinking already, at two. By six we've won and we decide to stay for a couple more before eating so I go up and get a round. As soon as I get back to the table someone else gets back from the bog and, not realising I've already done the honours, goes and gets another round.
Which takes us smoothly to about seven. Feeding time at the zoo. Except we've all left our beer back in our places of abode, about half an hour away. i.e. a round trip of about an hour and a half to get beer and go to the party. Grab a burger on the way and off we go to fetch beer. Also hipflask.
And so to the party. The usual sleazy affair. We try to embarrass the young wans but they're wise to us at this stage. Certain unnamed individuals try their trick with the pint glass and the vodka and get the stuff everywhere, turning themselves into a fire hazard. Luckily he's too soggy to burn. I tell everyone to read my rants on thingsihate (Hooray!). Then it's time to sing songs.
We're just finished "Goodnight Sweetheart" and "Il Bianco" when I realise I'm out of booze. Disaster! What do I do? At this point some wee voice in my head points out that I've got a hipflask full of Black Bush in my pocket. Of course! Open open. Swig stuff. Ah yes, now I remember. It's not Black Bush. It's about half and half Watt'ngeist and Black Seal Rum. Aah. That'll put hairs on yer teeth, me hearties!
And so the merry night is whiled away until we all collapse. The next day I wake up feeling rotten. And why is this? I'll tell you why. I have this theory, you see: distilleries are all infested by gerbils!
Yes indeed, gerbils. They run about the place in their little gerbilly way and lay their eggs in the maturing casks, whence they get into all the bottles of spirit (except blended scotch which is made of industrial effluent and isn't matured).
When you drink the stuff the eggs get in under your tongue and behind your teeth and while you sleep all the little furry gerbils hatch out and run around your mouth leaving fluff everywhere. (Also a funny taste but we won't go into that.) Sometimes they even run down into your stomach instead of out your mouth and you can feel them running about in there for hours before they succumb to the acid. Besides the furry teeth I don't really have much evidence of this but the cat always looks very pleased with itself when I'm hungover.
Gerbils seem to be allergic to chicken quick soup. It cures a hangover in no time.
Know that cheap beer you get in Lidl? Very tasty but lacking in essential minerals and vitamins, or something. It's odd that I can never nip the hangovers in the bud, though - preempt them, as it were, because the parties that lead to them always unfold the same way. We all agree to meet up in someone's gaff on Saturday, upon which day someone suddenly says "Are yez coming down the pub to watch the match?"
Munster v Leinster? No way we could miss that! Getting a couple in before kickoff means we've to be in the pub by two, so, there we are, drinking already, at two. By six we've won and we decide to stay for a couple more before eating so I go up and get a round. As soon as I get back to the table someone else gets back from the bog and, not realising I've already done the honours, goes and gets another round.
Which takes us smoothly to about seven. Feeding time at the zoo. Except we've all left our beer back in our places of abode, about half an hour away. i.e. a round trip of about an hour and a half to get beer and go to the party. Grab a burger on the way and off we go to fetch beer. Also hipflask.
And so to the party. The usual sleazy affair. We try to embarrass the young wans but they're wise to us at this stage. Certain unnamed individuals try their trick with the pint glass and the vodka and get the stuff everywhere, turning themselves into a fire hazard. Luckily he's too soggy to burn. I tell everyone to read my rants on thingsihate (Hooray!). Then it's time to sing songs.
We're just finished "Goodnight Sweetheart" and "Il Bianco" when I realise I'm out of booze. Disaster! What do I do? At this point some wee voice in my head points out that I've got a hipflask full of Black Bush in my pocket. Of course! Open open. Swig stuff. Ah yes, now I remember. It's not Black Bush. It's about half and half Watt'ngeist and Black Seal Rum. Aah. That'll put hairs on yer teeth, me hearties!
And so the merry night is whiled away until we all collapse. The next day I wake up feeling rotten. And why is this? I'll tell you why. I have this theory, you see: distilleries are all infested by gerbils!
Yes indeed, gerbils. They run about the place in their little gerbilly way and lay their eggs in the maturing casks, whence they get into all the bottles of spirit (except blended scotch which is made of industrial effluent and isn't matured).
When you drink the stuff the eggs get in under your tongue and behind your teeth and while you sleep all the little furry gerbils hatch out and run around your mouth leaving fluff everywhere. (Also a funny taste but we won't go into that.) Sometimes they even run down into your stomach instead of out your mouth and you can feel them running about in there for hours before they succumb to the acid. Besides the furry teeth I don't really have much evidence of this but the cat always looks very pleased with itself when I'm hungover.
Gerbils seem to be allergic to chicken quick soup. It cures a hangover in no time.