We’ve all been there, right? Saturday night, the tunes are blaring, the vibes are immaculate, and the drink is hitting you in all the right places; you have a good buzz going. You look at the time, and it reads ‘Sunday 4:00 a.m.’ Yet still, not a care in the world. Eventually, when you do decide to leave the club and stumble your way into the kebab shop, Boss Man slides the kebab across the counter like he’s seen this exact version of you a thousand times before. You mill into the gyro that is twice the size of your head. Then all of a sudden, you’ve teleported into your bed, fully clothed, breath reeking of a tequila x kebab mix, and you’re out for the count.
That initial moment you wake up, you question if you’re alive or in hell for all your sins the night before. Dry mouth, a headache so painful it makes you promise never to have another drink again (yeah right) and the dreadful shakes. You reach for the water bottle on your bedside locker, empty. Your only means of survival is ripped away from you. You roll out of bed, clinging to the wall as you make your way to the kitchen. You look up, eyes half open to see a black silhouette standing in the doorway. ‘THE ABSOLUTE STATE OF YOU LAST NIGHT, STUMBLING IN HERE AT 6 A.M. WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF’ as you redecorate the kitchen floor with last night’s kebab.
The feeling of absolute dread and despair when opening your phone and seeing what you posted on your social media, but at least it’s only on your private story…check again my friend. Messages start flooding in ‘you were on fire last night’ ‘I cannot believe you were up on the table last night dancing to Shakira ye mad thing’ and the worst of the lot THAT text from the promise you promised yourself in the mirror you’d stop texting ‘so, are we still on for dinner tonight?;)’
Your stomach starts to groan, yearning for food. Now, in this situation, there are only three viable options; option number 1 is a breakfast roll. It’s a true hug of embracement for your insides.
Option 2: If you physically cannot stomach any food, the next best thing is an original Lucozade. The flavour dances on your taste buds harder than you did on the dancefloor of Coppers last night.
And option number 3 is the purest form of the cure that the human race has to offer… the glorious Sunday carvery, mash, roasties, roast beef or chicken, ham and veg lathered in gravy and if it’s a bit of you, a Yorkshire pudding. The feeling of comfort and acceptance flourish in your body, as you sit back with a full belly and realise ‘everything is going to be okay’… until your mate places another pint down in front of you.
Photo credit: The Squirrel Inn
