Hangovers - Never Say - Never Again.

He opened an eye to greet the burning spear of light that cut through the blinds. Almost simultaneously he recalled at least three people he had insulted, one of whom was a woman with huge breasts and a face that could have only been used to hold doors open. Her biggest mistake was to not look lovingly into the eyes of a near human who could look in three different directions at once and had all the saliva retaining ability of a new born child.

By the time the second eye had unraveled itself, the mouth was moving but was as yet unable to form coherent words...not English ones anyway. Whilst he recalled that beer was expensive, he could not remember consuming the family size pot of glue that was keeping his mouth cemented together.

He was now lying in a prone position with what to all intents and purposes appeared to be a periscope propping up the duvet. Yes, here lies the most foul smelling, ghostly faced, groaning sex machine ever witnessed . Come on girls, this is your midday orgasm call !

A pre flight check tells him that all aboard ship is in reasonable order bearing in mind the journey just undertaken. The tank however needs emptying. Feet touch terra firma with consummate ease and it is not until the whole machine stands erect that he begins to wonder when his bedroom floor became the valley of death ride at the fun fair.

Zig zagging his way to the little boys room, bouncing off walls, tripping over his clothes he begins to question the actual benefits of his nights work. Gripping onto the sink, he aims his radar fitted trouble seeker down the hot line to God. As he moves nearer to avoid accidents he slumps against the wall. A face full of cold water and a gargle later he stands proudly by a window feeling pretty relieved that he can perform even the simplest of functions, without too much stress. On noticing that all the neighbours can now see the naked animal that woke them in the early hours, to the strains of Flower of Scotland ,in Hindi, he retreats from view. He is about to slip into some clothing when the brain plays its favourite morning after trick.

Just when he thought he had got away with it, the brass band strikes up Down in Old Dixie, and boy does his head have good acoustics this morning. Yes, this is all part of the service. It costs no extra to talk to God on the great white telephone ,at cheap rate if he wishes. He could also talk to the girl whose number he has written on the back of his neck but he can’t work it out in the mirror. Anyway, was it a girl ?

Talking of things cheap, he peaks furtively into his wallet. If only his head and stomach were as empty. Next time, or will there be a next time ?