Monday, 14 March 2016

The Morning After

A blinding light pierces through the worn curtains that are my creased eyelids. Through the green fog floating about my brain I take my time to surmise that it must be 'tomorrow' at 'some time' in the 'day'.

The Sun's rays that have cruelly taken the opportunity to enter the room as it noticed the usual defence mechanisms have not been drawn across the windows form needle-like objects as it continually inserts itself into the back of my brain through my eyeballs. Though that sentence may seem long, confusing and painful to read, it is not due to the writer's inept writing skills (though they don't hurt) but a clever metaphor (or whatever it's called) for what it was describing.

Due to the aforementioned fog, the pain takes a while to register before making its presence known.

It is not welcome here.

I blindly reach for the closest bit of 'anything' that I can grasp to shield my eyes. It's long, thin and silky, and will have to do.

I wrap the dark green, stained Tullamore Dew promotional neck-tie around my head like a blindfold. I drift back to resume my alcohol-induced coma, as the aromatic blend of stale Guinness, Kilkenny, Stewed cabbage & bacon, black pudding, whisky and doner kebab waft from my makeshift blindfold and into my nasal passage.

Another uninvited guest. My stomach protests.

I regain consciousness sometime later as my body grows tired of trying to swallow the thick, dried sludge that has formed at the back of my sandpaper-tongue. Going by the unfamiliar taste in my mouth I am almost certain someone has shat in my mouth during my slumber.

I can't be sure, but I suspect it's the little man grinning wildly at me in the corner as he hops from foot to foot. He has a green top hat and beard, and seems unhinged. I throw him all me lucky charms within reach, and he flees up the chimney.

I muse about that age old riddle; what goes up a chimney down but not down a chimney up?* Where I should really be focusing my attention on the fact that I don't actually have a chimney.

This unexpected brain activity takes an immediate toll on my body, and it instantly rewards itself by shutting down once again.

In a confusingly hot and cold, sticky sweat I awake half-heartedly once more. I roll over and am startled to find that I have half-naked company. It seems I am joined in my bed by either a haggard looking 'lady' (to be generous) or a grossly deformed, human-sized wombat or sloth. My mind has neither the ilk nor the wont to work out which, and so I do my best to smile politely at this revolting thing and close my eyes again in the hope that it returns from whence it came.

It does not.

Instead, it shouts mostly unintelligible noises in my direction in a thick Irish accent. It seems unimpressed. The words I recognise that have spewed forth from the hole where her(?) mouth is are 'breath', 'look' (a lot) and, stereotypically, 'tiddly-dee' and 'potatoes'.

Finally, one can only assume it starts up a large jet engine which is quickly followed by a foul and pungent odour from beneath the sheets. It cackles and pulls the sheets up over my head.

Moments before I pass out again I make a mental note about this being my first (and, God-willing, only) Irish-Dutch oven and instantaneously throw up a black, chunky bile onto my pillow.

A slurping sound brings me back to life. My face feels wet. I say a quick prayer to St Patrick that the creature that was laying naked in my room that when I open my eyes is not only gone but not licking my face.

Ah, the luck of the Irish has paid out! I open my eyes and see my loyal Rottweiler, Roger, cleaning up my mess on the pillow and, importantly, NOT the 'thing' that has thankfully gone from whence it came.

I celebrate by doing a loud fart as I attempt to move the rest of my body towards the shower. Roger is not impressed (with both the sound and sight) and leaves the room. He's often disappointed with his Master and goes to cheer himself up by rolling in a dead kookaburra that the cat had prepared earlier.

I catch a glimpse of my lifeless face in the mirror and see it is covered in various shades of green Irish stickers, fake tattoos and lipstick. A shower now seems more work than I am prepared for and I return to bed.

On the bed I see a note that says, "Tiddly-dee, call me" with a phone number underneath.

I'm too ashamed to see my friends and workmates after yesterdays probable embarrassments - and my stomach and fluid levels are at dire levels - so I figure why not, I need to eat and drink and I could do with the company, and so I call 'it'.

After all, 'it' is my boss so I will have to see her again eventually.

I thank the foremost patron Saint of Ireland that, as an Australian, I only have to celebrate this day once a year.

Peace'O'Mind Ronnie Peace Ron Acme
Wow, a talking fan

(* Oh yeah. The answer to the riddle is most probably an inflatable sex doll)


  1. Sounds like a good night - a hangover never forgets how old you are!

  2. Today's hangover is also today's excuse to drink.


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