The Hanging

The sun rises illuminating a world of pain through curtains roughly pulled at a half-cut 4 AM. I lean over and switch off the theme tune to The Snowman that plays incessantly through the scratchy smartphone speaker.

When I lie still there is only the throbbing beginnings of a headache to keep me company, but the slightest movement pushes my stomach into a dash-to-the-toilet frenzy and my sphincter clutches itself in a vain attempt to prevent the unstoppable. The contractions in my intestine giving birth to my companion. My hangover.

This is the disease that plagues the players, dingbats and heroes of this world – those who seek glory at midnight and redemption by brunch. A disease whose cure is withheld by the bowler-hatted suits of Whitehall, who dare not approach a bottle of Scotland’s finest with the sole intention of fitting its entire contents into themselves.

I tumble out of bed and groggily stumble into the kitchen. I grind some Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee beans and rub them into my eyes until tears of crema flow down my cheeks. The caffeine takes hold and capillaries burst into bloodshot contour lines. I can see.

If this is today then I want none of it. I feel like the ugly face of charity – a desperate, facetious street fundraiser armed with a nagging sense of guilt begging for someone’s salvation, namely my own.

What was the bad thing? The glass smashing? The screaming? The dancing? Definitely the dancing. A man’s arms are not meant to move in that manner, I am positively rhythm dyslexic, rather than pulling shapes I pull embarrassed glances. That was the bad thing.

At this moment only fried slices of pig and gallons of piss-staining Lucazade will substitute a cure, but these things are a grope too far.

My lips are coated with a fine white film of congealed spittle and my hair matted with cold sweat. I rush to the sink, slip on what I can only hope is my own vomit, and pour myself a pint of tap water in a vain attempt to dilute the coming trauma.

The small, shriveled part of my brain that handles responsibility and restraint suggests orange juice, a couple of eggs and a brisk walk will improve matters. However, in many ways a hangover is a chance to reflect on the night before. A karmic punishment for daring to touch the light fantastic with the spiritual aid of single malt whisky. Man was not meant to fly, and like Icarus, my wings were suitably burnt for trying.

I try to remain calm  as the anxiety takes hold. Flashbacks of an online auction, bottles of Brora, and a sixteen digit credit card number burn across my mind’s eye. A sober man uses debit, a maniac uses credit.

I collapse onto the sofa, switch on Countryfile, and accept my fate.

I am on the gallows of guilt. Regret my executioner. Today I hang.

Once Upon A Beginning

We’re sat opposite one another, the lights dimmed, the hour late. In another time – another place – this could almost be romantic.

The multitude of tumblers, highballs and Champagne flutes spewed over the table, detail a night well lived.

The Nameless is gesturing wildly, eyes popping, ranting at break-neck speed. Amongst the drunken psycho-babble, egotism and flailing righteousness, he proclaims himself the next Ernest Hemingway.

Bitch Boy and I glance at each other, making eye-contact briefly.

This isn’t the first time The Nameless has made such a hideous claim, Champagne fuels his Messiah Complex like lax gun control fuels killing sprees.

However, this is the first time he has grabbed a Moleskine and a Biro and begun scrawling across it.

It would be a push to describe his writing as prose – it is neither flowing nor elegant – but it vaguely resembles a rough collection of sentences.

This is how Whisky Gonzo began.

The Nameless and myself writing – I say writing… – whilst in the midst of a nightmarish Champagne binge.

Bitch Boy is slumped face flat on the table, gurgling gracefully. The Brora is before us, opened and primed. A new dawn has begun.