How's your Hang?

This is the story of the worst hangover of my life. It was so bad that at one point I thought I was going to die.

The events leading up to my near death experience began on Thursday 23rd February 2006.

I wake up on the morning of 23rd February 2006 and I instantly realise something isn’t right. I have a sore throat. I go downstairs for my breakfast and the piercing pain is so bad that I struggle to eat my cereal. I’m meant to be going to Dublin tomorrow for a weekend of boozing and I want to back out. But I can’t back out – I’ve paid for the plane tickets and for the accommodation.

My alarm goes off on Friday 24th February at 6:00 am. I’m no better but I’m going to the airport. The taxi picks me up then we go round to my friend Red David’s flat so he can get a lift. We get to the airport and meet up with some of the other people going on the trip. Some folk have started drinking in the airport. I’ve not had my breakfast yet, I’m ill but I still feel that I have to have a pint. Get on the plane and have a few more beers.

Arrive in Dublin and put our bags down in the hostel we are staying at. I was meant to be there playing squash but I’m too ill to play. Instead go to the pub and have some drinks. I think that if I drink enough the pain in my throat will go. It does, I keep drinking. End up in bed back at the hostel at about 1am. Strangely I don’t feel drunk, just tired. I can’t sleep though as I now have a cough and I can’t stop coughing. When I cough it feels like sandpaper in my throat and a sharp dagger in my chest. It is one of the most hellish nights of my life.

I’m in bed in the hostel on the morning of Saturday 25th February and I’m in seriously bad nick. Again people go to play squash but I am too ill. Instead me and Red David go the pub to watch the 6 Nations Rugby. We drink all day again. We meet up with the others after their squash. We go to a club but again I don’t feel that drunk, just tired and ill and I go back to the hostel at about 12.30 am. I can’t sleep tonight. I’m just coughing. When I cough I feel like crying. It hurts my throat and my chest. I’m in a bad way.

Sunday 26th February and I’m almost a broken man but this is our last day and night in Dublin so I decide to try and keep my chin up and go for one last push. Go for breakfast at a café with Simon and I’m feeling really dizzy, like I’m going to faint. I feel better after food although I still feel really bad (just better than how I was feeling). The 6 Nations Rugby is on again today so we go to one of the pubs at Temple Bar. I haven’t had any Guinness yet so I decide to join the people that are drinking it. I go up to the bar and ask for 4 pints of Guinness but no sound comes out my mouth. I’ve lost my voice. I’m kind of glad because my throat is agony when I try and speak. I point at the Guinness tap and put four fingers up in the air. The bar man understands my order.

We get a table and Red David generously offers me one of his tic tacs. I’m surprised he has been so subtle instead of pointing out to everyone that my breath stinks courtesy of my inflamed throat. The tic tac is a bit soggy but I eat it. He starts laughing. I’m not sure how he could have had it in his mouth before he gave it to me as I saw it come out of the box. He explains how his tic tacs have been in the pocket of his jeans all weekend. He had had met some girls in the club last night. The charmer went back to their flat and unfortunately fell asleep fully clothed and had an accident in the night. This is how his tic tacs got wet he explains. I’m too ill to complain so I just pretend I’m cool with eating a urine flavoured mint. We carry on drinking in the pub and then people go out to a club. I go to the club but again have to retire back to the hostel early and I endure one final, painful night of hell.

It’s Monday 27th February 2006 and it’s the day that I nearly die. We are all getting on the bus to go to the airport and we realise Red David didn’t sleep in the hostel again that night. We wait 10 minutes for him but we have to leave as otherwise we will miss our flight. We get to the airport and there is no sign of Red David. Finally he arrives and some of our group members are not happy with the way he kept us all waiting. Red David is feeling isolated and he invites me outside for a smoke. I chum him outside and he starts crying because everyone hates him. I can’t believe that he is actually crying but I remind myself that he is probably exceptionally delicate because of his hangover. I have felt like crying constantly over the last few days. He is just expressing himself.

I get on the plane feeling as I’ve felt all weekend – just terrible.

Half an hour in to the flight and things take a turn for the worst. Suddenly I am sweating profusely. My vision is blurry, it’s a fight to keep my eyes open and I feel so dizzy that I’m definitely going to lose consciousness. I’m panicking. I ask the person across the aisle from me for some of their water. I gulp it down in a oner. It doesn’t help. Red David is sitting next to me and is laughing, shouting that I’ve “gone green.” I don’t find this such a hoot. I’m about to black out and he’s prodding me and having a laugh. I ask for food. Someone hands me a strepsil and the sugar in it seems to help me. I’m still alive but exceptionally weak. I just manage to hold on to the end of the flight. At the airport, I am completely spaced out. It’s like the world isn’t real or I don’t wholly exist. I take a bus with Red David not quite into the centre of town. He is still laughing, I can’t speak or react. I can’t think of anyone more annoying and less helpful to have around in your hour of need. I know I have to eat, I’ve hardly had any food over the weekend and I figure my near death was probably something to do with lack of food and dehydration.

I end up in O’Brien’s the sandwich shop. I ask for the ice cream of the day when I mean soup of the day. I just can’t think at all. The girl behind the counter asks me something and I can’t respond. She looks at me like I’m a freak. She asks me if I would like butter on my sandwich. I’m not quite sure what I say in response but it is something like “yes, I’ll have mayonnaise.” Dangerously disorientated.

The walk from O’Briens back to my flat is like what the last 5 miles of a marathon would be for a fat couch potato. I dig deep and I make it home. My flatmate is in the sitting room and asks me “How was Ireland?” Not out of rudeness I blankly walk up the stairs and get into my bed. It is 10:15am. When I wake up it is still light outside. I gather some strength and go to have a shower. I get in the shower but after 10 seconds I become dizzy and have to get out rather than risk collapsing and drowning. I put my clothes on and courageously make my way downstairs to get some food. My flatmates are usually around in the evening so I am surprised when nobody is in the sitting room. Through lack of strength I just about crawl into the kitchen. I notice the kitchen clock is showing 11:30 as the time. Surely not. It’s never light at 11.30pm in Scotland and it dawns on me that I have slept for 25 hours. I’m not all that surprised. I feel bad enough to sleep for the rest of my life. I would not be surprised if I was in a coma for a bit during those 25 hours. I pour some cereal and sit down at my kitchen table. It is a struggle eating. My throat is no longer sore but my hand shakes intensely when lifting the spoon to my mouth. At that point my flatmate returns to the flat after a morning lecture to find a shadow of myself at the kitchen table. He asks “What happened?” and this story is what I tell him.