Let me introduce myself. I am Phill’s hangover, his worst enemy but also his closest friend. Since he started doing this Blog I’ve wanted to do a post of my own giving a ‘snapshot’ of our life together. Some of you know me better than you think you do, others are maybe meeting me for the first time. Either way I hope I give you a headache.

Saturday 2.45pm:

Look at him, he never learns. Going out for another heavy drinking session with those funny looking friends of his. He thinks he’s prepared for the ‘morning after’ with his purchase of headache pills and downing the pint of water he’s having as I write. Trying to get fully hydrated in a pathetic attempt to minimise my impact tomorrow. It won’t work though for I am the hangover from hell and I will have my fun.

Saturday 3pm:

I follow him closely as he walks up to the local Club, I’ve slipped him some ‘good humour’ and ‘positive energy’ as the better he feels now the harder he will fall tomorrow. You’d think he’d learn after all these years but he never does.

Saturday 5pm:

This part of the day is always a little boring but necessary if I am to inflict maximum pain in the morning. I sit a little bit away from him as he chats inanely with his friends about the same subjects they have for the best part of the last thirty years. He once got in a punch up in the toilets in a row over the UK immigration policy. If you’re interested in what side he’s on then just know he’s a Guardian reader. We don’t want any of that today though as he got very upset after that incident and went home early, thereby avoiding me the next day.

I’d say that we need to make sure he avoids too much talking and not enough drinking during this period as well but, if managed correctly, this can work in my favour. There used to be some girls that came in who he liked to go and try to impress (never worked). He tried so hard to pretend to be sober that he just made himself more inebriated. When this happened I knew we’d be in for a pleasurable Sunday (for me, not him).

Saturday 8pm:

Excellent news. We’re ‘up town’ and he’s moved on to the vodka already. Him being far too old to be out drinking for this long has its advantages as he can no longer manage the volume of lager after lager. I now know I will have him in my clutches until at least Wednesday next week. His hearing is also not what it was either which helps. When the barkeep asked him if he wanted an ‘house double for an extra pound?’. I know he didn’t hear but just said yes anyway due to him being a drunken plank with good manners.

Saturday 11pm:

Embarrassing himself talking to girls again. I don’t know why he does this, I know for a fact he’s no real interested in anyone but someone. Drink makes him see a pretty girl, flirting and laughing at his jokes. I see a nice girl wondering when she’ll meet the man of her dreams so she doesn’t have to talk to middle aged drunks anymore. Using my special hangover powers of suggestion I make him think it’s a good idea to buy drinks for everyone around him. When he remembers this in the morning and regrets it I will feel a warm glow of satisfaction. I’ll also hide his cash card when he’s finished paying. By hide I mean I’ll put it in his wallet where he’ll never find it.

3am:

Time for home. A bit of a dilemma for me at this point. If I encourage him to go to the Pie Shop then the food is likely to give him a dodgy stomach to go with the headache when he wakes up. On the other hand, if we give it a swerve and go straight home, he won’t have had anything to soak up the alcohol which will make him feel thrice as bad. Straight home it is!

3.15am

He thinks he’s having a fascinating conversation with the Taxi driver about love, relationships and socialism. He isn’t.

3.30am

I love this part. He’s well aware that the atmosphere when he wakes up will be significantly influenced by how much noise he makes as he enters the house. It doesn’t matter how hard he tries to be quiet as I always ensure the door slams behind him, he knocks at least three things over and I wake the cat up so it meows at the top of its voice.

As he takes his place on the sofa in readiness for sleep I always get hold of his phone and text at least five people he really shouldn’t be contacting at that hour. When he sees them in the morning he won’t remember writing them. That’s because he didn’t, I did.

3.45am

He’s asleep, time to go to work. I climb inside his head, infect his mind and stretch out all over his body. All that’s to do now is lie in wait until he wakes up and then I will pounce.

6.00am

I love that he can’t sleep. Even after a day on the booze he wakes up early. The best part is those few seconds before it dawns in him where he is and what’s he’s been doing. As soon as it does I’m on him like a sledgehammer. I bash him smack in the side of the skull then I attach myself to his head like a vice and begin to squeeze.

6.30am

This is when I really start to play with his head. I swirl around in his mind to churn up all his usual negative thoughts. He thinks nobody loves him. He’s wrong about that, I do!

8.30am

Other people in the house start to arise. If I’ve done my job right they’ll be disgusted by him. It’s not unknown for the pretty one to scream at him at this point. He’ll try to ignore her but his soul will be shattered. Good.

10.30am

This is where I get some help from the others in the house. They are awesome at playing the guilt card so they make him go out to somewhere crowded and loud, he still has to pay obviously. I go along for the ride so I can bash him intermittently on the side of his head and turn up the anxiety levels.

2.00pm

All he wants to do now is lie on the sofa but he and I both know he’s no chance. Why does he do this to himself? I even start to feel a little sorry for him. He’s not stupid though, he’s just his own worst enemy.

6.00pm

We’re both starving. It’s hungry work being a hangover so I get him to order a million pounds worth of Chinese food. He doesn’t much like this type of takeaway but I do and I make him think it’s an excellent idea which he will then regret it immediately after he’s eaten.

9.00pm

He’ll try and have an early night. No chance I’m letting him sleep. He’ll lie awake into the early hours thinking that he really doesn’t enjoy drinking any more, he only does it to numb whatever it is that’s eating him alive from the inside. He and I both know though, we’ll be back together the same time next week.

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