As a soon to be 27-year-old, I don’t feel it’s really my place to talk about being old. However, as a physical being subjected to gradual physical decay and entropy, I’m going to have to weigh in – especially when what I’m about to say revolves around not being able to handle the after-effects of heavy alcohol consumption as well as you maybe once used to.
In the throes of a monumental hangover – namely one powerful enough to render you immobilised through head and gut pains, yet weak enough to keep you alive and conscious through it all – I found myself wondering whether it was really worth it. They say that the universe is in perfect balance, but I struggle to see how the torturous agony of trying to get up the morning after can perfectly counterweigh the high of getting a bit pissed the night before.
Getting up in the morning is never a fun thing. If I didn’t have a usual place of work to head to on a weekdaily basis, quite frankly I don’t think I’d ever do it by choice. The dry throat and lack of bedside water, the feeling of a hollow stomach and no food to fill it with, and the inside of one’s head being commandeered by a marching band and the knowledge that painkillers are a long way away (i.e. not within arm’s reach) should be enough to have anyone begging for the sweet release of death. That is, providing they could move from a lying position to a kneeling one and providing the knees don’t ache enough already.
Ultimately, it’s the bladder full of last night’s poison that forces us to eventually get moving as we ponder why we even do this to ourselves. We stupidly proceed to tell ourselves it won’t happen again, whilst simultaneously making plans for the next piss-up. I’m reminded that I wrote and even performed a piece of performance poetry regarding this phenomenon as a university student some years ago. Even though now I’m slightly older with a body less tolerant of binge attacks, I managed to capture the essence of this as a 21-year-old.
Or at least I think I did. It’s been years since I even bought about it and it may involve me digging through a now disused hard drive to drag it up again and see how close I actually was. I’ll not be performing it though. Once was enough for that. Besides, by “performing” I really just mean “reading out loud in front of people without shitting myself” and I can’t wholly guarantee I’d manage that again. Especially not with my guts in their current state. Hangover bowels are the worst, right?
Did you hear? There’s a new Radiohead album out. Apparently this is big news, can’t believe you haven’t heard it. Apparently, they’re like a big deal, right? I mean, to be fair, never really followed the band or their work – a passive observer if you will. However, like any dedicated fan base should, this new stuff has been rammed so far down my throat by the dedicated ones that I’m surprised I haven’t pooed it out yet. A moon shaped poo, if you will.
Not wanting to diss this (in fact, quite the opposite – I’m presenting it here for crying out loud), it’s simply out of admiration for a song I’ve heard rather than a collective I’ve been loyal to… because, you know, I haven’t. But the combination of airy vocals, electronic droning and Psycho-style dramatic strings has managed to burrow into my consciousness and settle down quite snugly. Not bad for something that feels like it’s actually a little bit sinister.
Radiohead – Burn The Witch
Jamie Walsh 
Leave a comment