Saturday, December 09, 2006
HOW TO AVOID A HANGOVER AND OTHER LIFE SKILLS.........
Generally when one is involved in a 13 hour booze up, one should feel pretty terrible.
The tongue should feel and taste like the floor of a South American rainforest onto which countless creatures of the mammalian, avian and reptilian kind have for generations deposited their bodily expulsions.
The head should have a new tenant, who plays drums at full volume or practices his jackhammering skills, simultaneously.
The stomach should contain mostly beer, with some food mixed at ratio of approximately 16 to 1, with the beer doing its utmost to defy gravity and travel back up the oesophagus to run free with the buffalo, taking the food with it for company.
The slightest movement of the body should immediately increase the above symptoms by tenfold.
That is how I should have felt, but instead I woke up to nothing more than my body requesting that its water content be increased.
This says one of two things to me.
Either I have returned back to my former level of alcoholic fitness, or that I didn't drink enough.
After spending Friday morning jumping through physio and hydro therapy hoops I met up with a couple blokes at midday, one of which was my old roommate in rehab, and took off to that pub which taunted for weeks when I was bed bound.
Once there, we enjoyed a lovely pub lunch washed down with plenty of beer.
Around fourish we all went our separate ways and I proceeded onto the Empress of India Hotel to continue my soaking.
As on any other Friday, slowly and surely the regulars started arriving.
And so the night wore on with all the expected bar stool conversations and of course, copious amounts of beer rapidly filling the numerous bottomless stomachs.
Before I knew it, it was one o'clock in the morning and I was still going strong.
I figured I probably didn't actually need any more booze, which left me quite surprised that I could come to such a radical and rational conclusion in my beery state.
And so I hollered for a taxi and was even more surprised that with all the Christmas parties and what not, one turned up relatively quickly.
Moral of the story: if you're going to really drink, then drink till you can't drink no more!
Here's some more pre surgery pics.
Note the bone at the top of the picture, that is the one that tried to escape.
It made it past the muscles and even the skin and poked it's battered head out of the side of my arm.
.
The tongue should feel and taste like the floor of a South American rainforest onto which countless creatures of the mammalian, avian and reptilian kind have for generations deposited their bodily expulsions.
The head should have a new tenant, who plays drums at full volume or practices his jackhammering skills, simultaneously.
The stomach should contain mostly beer, with some food mixed at ratio of approximately 16 to 1, with the beer doing its utmost to defy gravity and travel back up the oesophagus to run free with the buffalo, taking the food with it for company.
The slightest movement of the body should immediately increase the above symptoms by tenfold.
That is how I should have felt, but instead I woke up to nothing more than my body requesting that its water content be increased.
This says one of two things to me.
Either I have returned back to my former level of alcoholic fitness, or that I didn't drink enough.
After spending Friday morning jumping through physio and hydro therapy hoops I met up with a couple blokes at midday, one of which was my old roommate in rehab, and took off to that pub which taunted for weeks when I was bed bound.
Once there, we enjoyed a lovely pub lunch washed down with plenty of beer.
Around fourish we all went our separate ways and I proceeded onto the Empress of India Hotel to continue my soaking.
As on any other Friday, slowly and surely the regulars started arriving.
And so the night wore on with all the expected bar stool conversations and of course, copious amounts of beer rapidly filling the numerous bottomless stomachs.
Before I knew it, it was one o'clock in the morning and I was still going strong.
I figured I probably didn't actually need any more booze, which left me quite surprised that I could come to such a radical and rational conclusion in my beery state.
And so I hollered for a taxi and was even more surprised that with all the Christmas parties and what not, one turned up relatively quickly.
Moral of the story: if you're going to really drink, then drink till you can't drink no more!
Here's some more pre surgery pics.
Note the bone at the top of the picture, that is the one that tried to escape.
It made it past the muscles and even the skin and poked it's battered head out of the side of my arm.
.
