Irn Bru and Jager? It ended with the Haggis Bomb.
I have taken to a tradition of describing my hangovers in terms of how they relate to films. This much has been covered in previous rambles on forlorn post-drunken regret. Today, I choose to dwell on the feeling of utter helplessness that overwhelmed me as I was mired deep in intoxication.
STAGE ONE
Have you ever seen The Diving Bell and the Butterfly?
Alive behind the eyes, in a world of existential terror. I thought, but I was not. Screw you, Descartes! Let me break it down for you, kids (imagine me throwing a blazer over my shoulder while leaning a raised foot on a chair, for optimum levels of undue and unintended condescension). In my head, I was barking instructions to my body, rising in desperation with each clumsy drunken act. I was Krang to my feeble plastic body's mad whims. My body had gained sentience all of its very own, but had no fucking clue how to put it to use.
Sobriety: "OK, we need to concentrate here. Be careful. There are witnesses but I don't think they....Oh God, they're looking. Are they....they're asking us something! Play it cool. Good, good, strong and silent....well, that.....that really was more of a whimper, but we can work with this. Now, very slowly.....SLOWLY....extend Right Hand. Right Hand? Right Hand, are you paying attention? Reach out and grab the glass. I know, I know, none of us want any more of it but we have to finish the pint. It's what Dignity would have wanted if he were still with us. Slowly now....careful.....careful....there you go...."
Intoxication: *knocks over glass* *giggles pitifully*
I am reliably informed that there was visible terror behind the glaze. I was fighting to be understood, to be coherent and to be the notoriously hard to read drunk I'm said to be. This time, I was just the drunk who found it hard to read (hysterical blindness), struggled when reaching a road to cross (mass hysteria) and who hoped he was merely retaining water (hysterical pregnancy).
Sobriety: "Pull it together. We're on the home stretch here. Stomach is doing his bit. Can we all take a minute to appreciate Stomach's contribution in keeping everything down? God damn it, Right Hand, nobody knows why you're saluting. Mouth, explain it to them. Explain it to....oh for fuck's sake! Just....just stop drooling, alright? And, Legs, enough of your fancy walking. Straight lines. Arms, what are you....STOP! Stop hugging her! OK, fine, one hug. Now, let her go. LET HER GO! You're in danger of making a Steinbeck situation of this, Good. Now, Legs, lead us to safety....ANOTHER HUG!? Legs, this hug does not involve you!"
And then came the next phase in the night's cinematic progression....
STAGE TWO
The Incredible Hulk.
Concerned Party: "Deebs, maybe you should stay in my place tonight. I'm not sure you're....you can stop hugging me now, really....I'm not sure you're in any state to walk home."
Sobriety: "Isn't that nice? You'd like that, wouldn't you? A bed? Sleep? Let's just lie here for a....Stomach! Keep it together. Alright, I can see I can't trust any of you tonight. Let's be cool about this. Can you do cool? I know it's not going to be easy but if we can all pull it together we can at least make a classy exit here...."
Intoxication: "GUUUUUUAAAAAAAHHHHH! DEEBS SMASH!"
Sobriety: "You just walked straight into that door. You know that, right? Right Hand! Turn the fucking handle already! We cannot go through the door. We are NOT The Hulk!"
STAGE THREE
Tarantino.
Vague flashes of memories half repressed, rememberings aborted for fear of re-triggering the shame spiral. It's a jumbled mess of a timeline in my skull; the middle at the end, the beginning at the middle and the end had come all those hours before with that damn Haggis Bomb. Yet, for sure, my legs moved to their own incomprehensibly effervescent soundtrack. Limb to ground in irregular rhythm outside of the collective consciousness. All the while, there remained that lingering spectre of ultra-violence....
Sobriety: "I'm going to fuck you up. Every inch of you. You'll want to turn to me tomorrow, turn to me to carry you through this. I won't. You unleashed the inebriation and the destruction it has wrought is on you. And just when you feel that you've turned that corner, when Stomach has finally forgiven you, I'm going to prick you with recollection. You are going to recall the fragments, the forgotten follicles that birth the strands of regret in you. Me and Stomach, we're in this together. Isn't that....AAAAHHH! Stomach! I was making a point...."
STAGE FOUR
Highlander.
The only way my turmoil would cease, the only way that my sober mind could process and let me get on with life was to promise myself that I wouldn't get spiritual again....the kind of spiritual that relies on actual spirits.
Intoxication or Sobriety.
There could be only one.
Sobriety: "You've made the right choice. Thank you. Maybe we'll see about mild intake of alcohol again after a few days. Let's just get through today and we'll table it for discussion. OK, champ? I'm glad you....wait....what's Right Hand doing? Put it....PUT THAT BEER DOWN!"
You should have been in my head when the vodka kicked in. Sobriety was pissed!
