Sausage in a bun

Hangovers. We’ve discussed them before. But because they occupy an increasingly worrying period of my morning and occasionally afternoons, it’s worth sharing my extensively researched cures. Not drinking is one but because even I’m not prepared to flirt with such a ridiculous notion, we’ll not only leave that there, we’ll poison it, bury it and pretend it was never a member of the family.

Talking of burying worthless notions, I was forced to extend this to an individual who selfishly pushed his slicky haired, stripy suited self in front of my much needed person at what we laughingly refer to the restaurant at work. Because you’re not allowed to call it a canteen. No, honestly. While my need for fried food was both medical and instant, he exhausted the – admittedly limited – patience of the fella behind the jump asking for his sausages just so. Then after a couple of refusals, he smeared these favoured bastions of the hungover with MARMALADE. Even in a state so close to catatonic, I could not let this pass. On enquiring pleasantly “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TO THAT SAUSAGE YOU PERVERT” his only excuse – excuse mind you don’t confuse that with a reason or even a rational argument – was that he was South African and this kind of thing passed as normal behaviour in the mother country.

Obviously this left me with two options; the first was to explain that while we Brits accepted the empire was long gone and that certain cultural shifts were something to be embraced and even welcomed but there were limits and in this specific case, his condimentatory faux pas was way beyond the pale. Or I could kill him in case he felt the urge to breed.

Anyone asks about a South African Gentleman suffocated in a vat of marmalade tied to a pole sporting a sign “BROWN SAUCE OR KETCHUP IF YOU MUST”, you ain’t seen me right.

Anyway Hangover cures. It’ll have to wait for another time as a mate had turned up and he has beer. And munchies. I’m sure you understand šŸ™‚ But don’t worry I’ll be back to it, there’s a definitive list but please feel free to post up your own. Not that I’ll acknowledge them, it’s not like this is a democracy or anything.

6 thoughts on “Sausage in a bun”

  1. I hit 40 last year. I’ll avoid the “what, even in your shed of a car?” comments by pointing out that this is an age-related comment rather than anything to do with velocity.

    One of the advantages of being 40 is … well, let’s get back to the advantages later on. What’s fair to say is that there’s a whole shedload of disadvantages.

    To start with, those trousers you’ve worn happily for many years suddenly shrink, the bastards. And washing your hair results either in the realisation that it doesn’t take as long as it used to, or that while Richard Gere seems to look good with grey hair, he’s the only one.

    The killer blow, of course, is the hangover. I used to be able to stay up all night, drinking steadily from 6pm, and roll into bed around nine hours later. In the morning I’d feel a bit bleary, but a bath, a sachet of Resolve and a bacon roll and I’d be sorted.

    Now if I stay up much past midnight – and that’s without drinking, mind you – I’m knackered for the morning. It’s not that I can’t stay up just as long as I used to – that’s fine – but I memorably stayed up until 5am a few months back, chatting to a mate. I’ll accept that a bottle or four of wine might have been involved, but the result was, horrifyingly, my first ever THREE day hangover.

    Unsurprisingly, I’ve largely given up drinking now. And that really pisses me off.

  2. There’s an evil conspiricy afoot that envovles the gradual increase of the alcohol content of wine. 10 years ago a white would be 9, maybe 10% now, even feeble ones are 12.5%, and as for reds try finding anything less than 14% on the shelf, and you’ll come out of the offy emtpy handed (never a pleasant experience)

    This is my excuse for not being able to drink like I used to 10 years ago. It’s a well reasoned argument, I think you’ll agree, with the added benefit of being “thier” fault and not any lack of capacity or manliness on my part Oh no.

  3. Flat irn bru
    600mg Ibuprofen
    square sausage in a roll with HP sauce
    a pint of orange juice
    a flagon of strong tea

    Any hangover not seen off by that lot isn’t worth fighting. You might as well be Poland in September 1939 when you’re hit by one of them.

    In those circumstances back to bed for a few hours, then a cheeky Bloody Mary rarely fails.

  4. Can I just say, in the South Africans defence, chutney.

    Who are we to criticise other folks sweet and savoury selection when we have fucking chutney?

  5. Oh I’d missed these. Many words of wisdom there. 40 Sounds bad, it’s only a year for me but I know I’ll be getting a hangover for my Birthday. Can’t actually drink at the mo with stupid antibiotics and god it’s dull.

    I have to agree about Chutney. And I’d like Sandwich Spread and Potted Meat to be taken into consideration as well.

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