I was asked to tell the Evening Standard about my worst hangover of 2014, heaven only knows why they picked me.
The article was published here.
The worst one? There are too many candidates. I suppose there’s always a hangover of something, if I think about it, but epic ones are memorable, known in the trade, and in Ireland, as “the fear.” It starts at the moment of awakening, before the eyes open. There is the silent writhing melancholic horror of consciousness with the dread of opening the eyes for terror of not knowing where you are or how you got there. Might there be an injury, or a tattoo? Was it a good idea to boast in the Groucho at 3.30am that you had the keys to the pub in your pocket? Who am I? Has my brain shrunk? (It feels like it’s rattling in my skull).
These thoughts are easily dismissed as occupational hazards. Usually it gets better after that, but, occasionally, it gets worse. When the elixir (Peter Langan’s fino sherry soaked apricots, below) doesn’t work and the Berocca bucks fizz is not helping, (who would consume dog hair?), oh what is Vieille Prune? I can’t be specific about dates and people, times and shenanigans (for legal reasons and to protect the vulnerable) but safe to say I have a breadth of experience. Tuesday Irish session at The Ship always a likely candidate. The proof is when I watched the film, “The Hangover” and I keep thinking, yeah, I’ve done that, and that, and that’s not a surprise, oh yeah, I know him, I’ve been there….
Langan’s Elixir, instructions.