Somewhere way over Greenland I manage to almost literally crawl out of the toilet of a Boeing 777 and shamble my way to the back where I find three empty seats and put the armrests up to make a bed of sorts.
I tried to sleep but due to a problem mentioned yesterday and not to be repeated here, or ever again, I have to get up and go to the toilet every twenty minutes when the situation has worsened. This is a nightmare.
Also, because you have to always, how shall I say, ‘dignify’ yourself at regular intervals, this leads to whole forests of paper being cut down and – more importantly – an increasing level of discomfort for the sufferer, leading ultimately to great pain at every interval. You get me. SURELY you get… yes you get me.
Now add a new dimension. Every time I try to sleep I simply have increasingly bizarre, involuntary, and vivid images play before my closed eye lids. Almost hallucinogenic. And sometimes scary. But never too scary because then it’s off to the toilet again.
At one point, after limping out of the cubical for the third time in an hour, a suspicious steward went in after me. I think he was convinced I was smoking. I wanted to say to him “Smoking? I gave up smoking two years ago, but if I could relieve myself of this situation I’d gladly smoke two hundred a day for the rest of my life in a laboratory as a scientific experiment.�
The images when I tried to sleep were getting increasingly strange? What was going on? Was it a lack of vitamins? Had I been drugged? Was the tiny piece of rice I managed to get in my mouth earlier in the flight rancid and off?
Eight and a half hours isn’t a long time to be on a plane but this one felt like days.
Then I remembered that we were landing at the worst airport in Britain, Heathrow, and surely it proved to be as we were kept on the plane after reaching our stopping point for twenty minutes whilst they waited for the buses to turn up and take us to the terminal. We’d stopped in a position way out on the apron, no-where near anything, and so that was a drive.
Eventually, we were stood at the baggage reclaim for forty minutes (including four, increasingly agonising, limping trips to the toilet for me) before they started issuing apology announcements and the bags started sliding through.
I know I sound like a moaner, especially about common airport difficulties that happen to everyone, but I was not in the best of moods nor health.
I got the Heathrow Express to Paddington about a WEEK after we landed and then a cab to Alison’s place of work on Edgware Road to pick up her keys. I forgot I was supposed to ring her when I was outside and so went up to the office. At reception I spotted a girl I knew, Gill, and she greeted my putrid form by saying “Stanley! You look well!� Obviously she was being sarcastic and I just wanted to get back to Alison’s.
I got to Brixton half an hour later and sunk into a bath.
I had a rest on the sofa before the images started again, as they had done on the plane. Then, I saw a rat running around the room and jumped up in panic because I’ve a phobia about them. What the hell was I going to do with a rat in the flat? To my relief and concern I realised it had run behind a piece of furniture that doesn’t exist and that I was dreaming / hallucinating again, there was no rat.
The way I was feeling and acting wasn’t ideal. I did manage to sleep properly in the end but the dreams would wake me up with a start.
WHAT WAS THIS HANGOVER ALL ABOUT AND WHY WAS IT SO BAD? Yes, it was a long and boozy week, and yes, I got smashed on Monday night, and yes, I’ve travelled 4,500 miles to get home, and yes, I’ve not eaten in….Ahhhhhh! That’ll be it then.
I started to feel panicky and the shakes were back for a bit but I’m putting this down to lack of food so I managed to cook a bit of salmon and veg from Ali’s supplies and did feel better. By the time she got home at seven I was far more in control, although she did still point out that I wasn’t acting myself.
How am I supposed to do this gig full of new material in two days time when I’ve got images of rats darting around and can barely walk?
Michelle came over and she and Ali cracked open the wine. No way, I thought. That might, in an alcoholic way, give a little comfort in rebalancing the equilibrium but there’s no way I’m drinking for a while – easily a week - and stuck to Evian.
We also had a big Indian meal delivered which I got stuck into so that’s something.
But once I was in bed, the images started again. I tried to control them by thinking of one image and keeping to it but it was almost instantly replaced by another, random one, not of my choosing.
I woke up shouting twice. Then started shivering.
WORST HANGOVER OF ALL TIME, NO QUESTION. This is from going out on MONDAY!
It does go to show that romanticing alcohol maybe glamorous as well as, in part, correct and normally very funny but there’s no escaping reality and you have to apply some sense.
I don’t know if I’ll ever have a week as heavy as the last one again. I certainly don’t expect so. I don’t really want to if these are the consequences.
- Post to:
del.icio.us
Digg
Newsvine
Nowpublic
Reddit
« Previous | Home | Next »