I am well hung. Over.

Like many of you, I have a hangover. I do not want it, and furthermore I feel I have not deserved it. I didn't drink nearly enough to warrant this silverback gorilla of a hangover (thanks v. much Therbs). I will therefore be taking my case against this injustice to the Court of Arbitration for Hangovers in the Hague. The Hague, by the way, was originally named for the noise made by visiting American college students after nineteen Heinekens and a couple of choofs of tourist grade mull.

I didn't always get hangovers. I was young, and my liver was an open book. My first recollection of hangoverdom was post-New-Years sometime last millennium when the Famous Dawso and I made the laughably poor decision to split a $20 carton of Reschs Real. It wasn't particularly evil - the hangover I mean, the Real obviously was. For most of my 20s, my hangovers were of the 'minor annoyance' category. I can only recall one which actually prevented me functioning - the morning after Origin III in 2000, which NSW won by a million billion to nil. It was actually 56-16 or something but it felt like a million billion to nil. Particularly if you were a Blues supporter in Brisbane. Muahahahahaha.

I still have the stubby cooler from that night. It's seen better days, as have we all, but as you can see it's still helping to create hungover realities.

There are a million billion supposed 'cures' for hangovers. Caffeine. Lardy salty food. Black Aspros. Bloody Marys. The hair of the dog that bit you. A kebab and a Powerade. (Which definitely has its place in the 'preventative' column. Our traditional 'last round of drinks' on big nights at the uni bar was a detour past the 24 hour servo at the bottom of our street for a Powerade and a chicken Hero roll.) Some go for sex and Vegemite toast. In series, not in parallel. Unless you're into crumbs in the bed.

Unfortunately, the truth is there is no cure for hangovers, only prevention - drinking less. Which, as I recall, Iggy and the Stooges have an apt commentary upon.


I actually like this version more than the Stooges, for which my brother considers me a heathen. Then again he does paintings of God having a flog.

The worst part of any hangover is its timing. Not just the lengthening to two- and even three-day epics as one enters one's thirtieth summer and beyond. Just the fact they roll up on the least appropriate mornings. Like, as happened to me several years in succession, the morning of December 31st. Or even, if you're really unlucky/disorganised/stupid, the Saturday of Grand Final weekend.

Yeah, about that. Since you asked, I'm on the Bloods and Berries. For the record, that's a match prediction, not a hangover cure. My faith remains implicit in the Holy Trinity of coffee, bacon and flu tablets.

The Doctor is OUT.