The Breakfast of Champions (moving in reverse).
Flying my daily mission over the hinterlands of Blogistan earlier today, I made my regular visit to hell, wherein I read the following...
Your humble Devil went for quite a lot more than a few drinks with PigDogFucker last night, and jolly good fun it was too. So, this morning I rose bleary-eyed and now, having fortified myself with fruit juice (alcohol leaches Vitamin C from the body) and coffee (ah, caffeine, beautiful caffeine!), I am ready to turn my jaundiced eye towards the news...
...now it may well be that His Satanic Majesty was merely bleary, or it may be that he suffered a proper hangover, but I was shocked to note that he was working from such odd assumptions. Vitamin C indeed, tsk. tsk.
Hangovers are a much more evil beast than that. Not only are you suffering from an acute vitamin B1 deficiency, but you are dehydrated even unto monkeyballs. In fact, the booze will have blown your body chemistry to shitrags and knackered up your electrolytes into the bargain. This is why you feel like something the cat sicked up, you are suffering from a self-inflicted poisoning.
But why, I hear you ask, are you bollocking on in this vein Old Scrotum?
Well, to digress for a second. In my last job I was a Chief Mortuary Technician, or to give it it's proper title, a Senior Anatomical Pathology Technician. This basically involved dissecting corpses, but in order to obtain the wallpaper that permits one to do these things a certain amount of training is required. Four years of it to be precise, covering many diverse topics to illness and death related.
When I'd qualified I took up the Chief's post at a major hospital in East Kent, and as I was still living in London at the time my bosses lodged me in the nursing hostel from Sunday to Thursday night for the first six months. Needless to say, Sunday to Thursday nights were spent in the social club on the hospital campus.
I don't get hangovers anymore, they stopped dead when I turned twenty-nine. I think my body finally realised that firing warning shots at me had as much effect as telling Vlad the Impaler that he's a very naughty boy, and that whatever else I did, I'd be back the next night for lots more of the same. Don't get me wrong, I regard my body as a temple, it's just that I seem to get most of my kicks from defiling it.
Accordingly, watching the whey-faced zombies staggering around the nurses hostel every morning pricked my conscience; after all, I was always the instigator of these bacchanalia and never suffered the consequences.
Thus it was that I determined to find a practical application for all the stuff I'd soaked up from hours of reading Stephens, Seely & Tate, and Poulson's Clinical Toxicology. I determined to liberate mankind from the scourge of the hangover.
The key is prevention, not cure. After all, if you wake up with the feeling that someone has lavishly carpeted your mouth with Axminster, replaced your eyes with two pickled onions and substituted a slowly revolving hedgehog for your brain then the damage is done.
You need to replace the water and vitamins while you sleep, so that you wake healthy and refreshed. Impossible? Not with my blindingly-bloody-obvious solution.
Simply prepare a reasonably sized bowl of salad before you go out, and bung it in the fridge. All the watery, cellulose-ridden cack that any self respecting carnivore would be ashamed to have in his intestines. Shredded lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers. If, like me, you hate rabbitry with a passion, feel free to add a dressing or a nice thick slab of cold ham and a dollop of Branston. DO NOT get creative. One test subject reported a disastrous failure, but under interrogation admitted adding pulses and carbs which totally derails the whole concept. Simply scarf the lot before you climb the wooden hill to blanket fair and all will be well. As you sleep like a newborn babe, all that ghastly cellulose breaks down, time releasing all the water and vitamins you need. Simple but brilliantly effective.
This has been extensively field tested under battle conditions, and it works. Now, if they can dish out a Nobel to this mendacious tosser, I'm throwing my hat into the ring for next year's prize for medicine. I think I've done more good than Mr. Serial any which way you slice it.
If you're one of these inexplicable creatures who feels compelled to spend the evening necking Pooftahpops with Galliano and plasticine chasers on top of a bellyful of QC sherry, I advise you to make more than one salad. This because you will almost certainly spend a large part of your night kneeling in the bathroom while your upper gastro-intestinal tract pressure hoses the Twyfords, and may need to repeat the prescription.