Back
  Your worst ever hangover...
    
Page: Previous  1 ... 42, 43, 44, 45, 46



Joined:
Nov 2012
Posts:
350
PostPosted: Fri Aug 26, 2016 3:55 pm 

pentagrimes wrote:
101_North wrote:
I'm just back from the GP. My last hangover was so bad and the depression so long lasting that I'd convinced myself I'd finally killed my liver! Unfortunately he agreed and I'm off the booze awaiting results to see how bad it is!


My condolences fella. I'm the tail end of two weeks off as a result of some nasty acid reflux problem that seems to be gone for now but which I'm loathe to deal with again, so I had the odd one or two while were away last weekend and I'm back to staying off it til the end of the month


As it turned out I was OK. Not perfect but nothing a bit of a lifestyle change won't help. I've been drinking to excess for at least 25yrs and at some point it'll come back to haunt me if I don't do something now. I love the booze but I'm showing my age. I like to think that I'm invincible but these days the body is finding many different ways of telling me I'm far from it LOL


Top
 Profile   
 


User avatar

Joined:
Aug 2005
Posts:
9147
PostPosted: Thu Sep 01, 2016 4:17 pm 

I getcha. I was stuck on industrial strength antacids and was fine, then went out with a friend, got sick after three beers and was back to square one.


Top
 Profile   
 



Joined:
Dec 2005
Posts:
2301
PostPosted: Tue Sep 13, 2016 12:24 pm 

Cosmic Equilibrium wrote:
The smell of sick didn't quite leave the room even after it had been cleaned up, and the hangover didn't clear until half way through the following day.


I knew a fella in school that threw up down the side of his bed after a night out. He never cleaned it up, just sprayed it with Lynx everyday.


Top
 Profile   
 



Joined:
Nov 2007
Posts:
261
Location:
Dublin
PostPosted: Tue Sep 20, 2016 9:07 pm 

I was living in France at age 15 and was really interested in homelessness, having just read "Down and out in Paris and London" and I suggested to my best friend that we should learn more about homelessness.

He agreed, and said that to do it right, we should live homeless for the weekend. I went over to his during the week, and he decided we should buy enough booze for the weekend. I'd only been drunk once in my life at this stage. Anyway, come the Firday, we had three bottles of spirits and 12 beers and headed into Paris, drinking on the way in. When we got to the centre of Paris we were wasted. He decided to go all in as a bad homeless person and started peeing in the Galleries Lafayette, indoors. We then cut each other's hair (and body hair) in one of the fountains nearby, totally wasted. Things were a bit of a blur after that, but I do remember us having a perfume war late that evening in Sephora on the Champs Elysees, seeing who could spray as many people as possible and obviously each other. There's no way we didn't get kicked out of there.
I remember wandering around for a while and falling asleep under the Arc de Triomphe beside the eternal flame, from which we were rudely awoken by cops who didn't take kindly to this. It was the 12th of July and the troops were rehearsing for Bastille day on the 14th, so there were cops everywhere. We must have wandered for a while, but the next thing I remember is that I woke up and we were being attacked by skinheads with a crowbar, having assumed my swarthy friend was an arab. They then left and my friend managed to anger them again by throwing a bag of croissants at their car as they were driving off. Fortunately, the cops turned up but wouldn't talk to us as "Rien qu'avec ton haleine j'suis bourre" - I'm drunk on your breath.
I think we fell asleep in an underground car park somewhere. The next day we couldn't buy food as security wouldn't let us into any shops, so we simply gave them money and they did our shopping for us. Even homeless guys can have personal shoppers.
I don't remember the rest of the weekend, but my friend had to go to his sister's engagement party with a cracked rib and covered in bruises from the skinheads. It was an epic weekend (or at least the bits I remember) and it gave me an understanding of homelessness that stood me well when I later volunteered in a homeless shelter in Paris for two weeks.
I'm now a grown up with a wife, a child and a mortgage.


Top
 Profile   
 


User avatar

Joined:
Dec 2014
Posts:
1365
Location:
Kill And Eat The Weak!
PostPosted: Wed Sep 21, 2016 1:08 pm 

Mortgage? So potentially homeless!


Top
 Profile   
 


User avatar

Joined:
Jun 2005
Posts:
8142
Location:
High Above The Rolling Waves, In Labyrinths Of Coral Caves...
PostPosted: Wed Mar 29, 2017 2:40 pm 

Been a while...mon.


Top
 Profile   
 



Joined:
Jun 2005
Posts:
635
Location:
Corcaigh
PostPosted: Wed Feb 21, 2018 2:32 am 

Hellfest in 2009 I think it was. I got hammered on countless little 30cl bottles of beer, then I realized they had a wine cocktail fountain thing, and started lashing into that, because I'm a fucking idiot.
The rest of the night is a blurr of vague recollections;
Falling over a few of tables. One of them twice.
Going looking for my tent a number of times and failing.
Falling over dozens of tents.
Smoking weed from an old tobacco pipe
Eating Jamon Iberico directly off the leg, with a bunch of drunk Spaniards.
Being in a field where there was no festival, campsite or people.
Taking a shit in the vineyard, while trying not to fall ass first into my shit. I don't remember wiping, but my underpants were missing the next day.

I woke up in my tent fully clothed (sans underpants), and thankfully wearing unpissed trousers. Fuck knows how. I felt a twinge of pain in my tooth, which turned into a full blown toothache pretty soon. No doubt during the Jamon Iberico feast, it never occurred to drunk me that this thing might have been in a toilet.
The throbbing tooth was accompanied by a massive hangover, dehydration and an odd bout of the squits. At least it was the day we were flying back. So I took a load of painkillers and hoped it would level off.
By the time I was in the airport a few hours later, I was more or less delirious. The toothache had now turned into an abscess, that was getting bigger fast. I looked and felt like a horse had kicked me in the jaw. I remembered my hangover and had to run to the toilet to puke when I saw a photo of spaghetti in the food court.
When the plane took off and my ears popped, I discovered a new discomfort, as the abscess and the pressurized air had a little wrestle in the side of my fucking face.
Every so often my brain would start getting retarded, as my still present hangover decided to make me dizzy.
I took a shit that looked like tar, smelled like death, and felt like lava, while holding onto the wall of the toilet, bathed in cold sweat, and generally wishing the plane would crash.
I remembered at this stage I wasn't wearing any underpants, and felt like a broken man.

A fucking eternity later, but early enough to get help, I went straight to my dentist, who thought I'd been mugged and offered to call the cops. He sorted me with a massive dose of antibiotics, and I went for a day in bed, on valium.
After three days the thing burst. The dentist warned me it would be nasty, and to squeeze it out when it did. It tasted and felt like my head took a shit in my mouth.
Fun times.


Top
 Profile   
 


User avatar

Joined:
Jun 2005
Posts:
16487
Location:
Holding a fiery stride
PostPosted: Thu Mar 08, 2018 2:25 pm 

:lol: :lol: :lol: :lol: Bloody hell man.


Top
 Profile   
 


User avatar

Joined:
Jun 2005
Posts:
4077
Location:
Co.Galway
PostPosted: Thu Mar 08, 2018 4:01 pm 

:lol:

Some exceptional descriptive storytelling there man.


Top
 Profile   
 



Joined:
Jun 2005
Posts:
635
Location:
Corcaigh
PostPosted: Tue Jun 05, 2018 12:59 am 

Actually that wasn't the worst.

My worst hangover was waking up in a hospital bed accompanied by eight broken bones, a collapsed lung, and blunt force liver trauma (cool song title).

The summer of 2000, and I was on the piss as normal on a Sat night, and took one of my friend's bike keys off him cause he was hammered and was gonna drive. The bike was parked with my one, in the hallway of the building I lived in. It was a big old place so you could fit three bikes in a line in there no bother. In retrospect I didn't need to take his keys, cause he couldn't get into the house, but I was steamed myself, and trying to act responsible in front of some girl I was sniffing around that evening. Sadly this romance was a failure, so I decided to get hammered instead.

After closing time, it ends up just me and another mate getting back to the house first, before the normal post pub scruff turn up. As we go in the door I realised I had the keys to a nice bike I had never driven and shur its time for a spin. My friend agrees, as he is also firmly in the sobriety test red zone. It was this chopped FZR 400 if I remember correctly, but this thing had been modified and all the weight taken off by the lad that owned it, because he was suicidal or something. For my part I was full of Murphy's stout, a few joints, a dab or two of MDMA, and I couldn't feel my face. So yeah, heavy machinery was no fucking bother.

So myself and the buddy get on the bike. I immediately forgot about the existence of headlights, other traffic and the like and pop an accidental wheelie knocking my mate off the back and went like a fucking rocket up the road.

This thing was a fucking beast. I shouted this sentiment over my shoulder to my mate who I thought was still on the bike, whereas he was actually standing outside my house wondering if I might ever return. He's over 6 foot and was overweight at the time. The bike had no mirrors, and I was too trolleyed to give my tunnel vision of awesomeness up, so I just took it for granted he was there. By now this thing is devouring the road, and my chin is almost on the tank as I enter a state of completely detached idiocy and reality becomes like an xbox game.

Suddenly I see the Kinsale Road roundabout looming, really fucking fast. It gets very big, and gets close enough so I can read the road signs, and I am frankly surprised to discover this impending obstacle as I'm now going maybe 120 mph. This is bad juju right here.

In a moment of flawed logic mixed with genuine optimism I tried to go over it, because I've played lots of GTA games and I know how shit works.

The last thing I remember is shouting a warning ("Fuuuuucking craaash!" or some variation on that central theme) over my shoulder to my not present friend, who by now was probably explaining where the bike was to the pisshead I had saved from the very fate I was about to have.

Apparently the cops were chasing me at the time, but I was completely unaware of this due to my being drunk and a fucking imbecile in the midst of his masterpiece moment of bad decision making. At least the cops were there to call an ambulance so that probably saved my life.

Next thing I know I'm in intensive care with tubes sticking out of me, various agonies ranging from dull to ominous and a noticeable roaster of a hangover. Through all the physical damage to my corporeal form, my fucking hangover managed to make it's presence known. Apparently at one stage in the ambulance, I had a seizure and it was looking pretty grim. That just made the hangover angry the next morning. It gave it a taste for blood. Cunt.


Top
 Profile   
 

Page: Previous  1 ... 42, 43, 44, 45, 46