Becky says things about … hangovers

I would first like to say, dear suspicious listener, that just because I am writing about hangovers doesn’t mean I have recently suffered from one.*

*It completely does. I have recently been killed by a hangover, and miraculously came back to life, a bit like Jesus.

Hangovers are God’s way of telling you you’re an idiot. Hangovers are a punishment for having fun. Hangovers are your body deciding that it’s going to take away a day of your life by preventing you from doing anything remotely productive and instead forcing you to spend the day in bed eating bowl after bowl of cereal and watching episode after episode of The Golden Girls on YouTube.


Most certainly, Stickman, but it is far more enjoyable when one chooses to spend a day in such pleasant diversion, not when it is literally the only thing that one can do apart from lie on the floor in a pit of self-disgust and softly wail. And if you’ve eaten all my cereal I am going to be livid.

Like life itself or the quality of supermarket own-brand products, hangovers are unpredictable. You can never tell whether they are going to be a mere mild irritation, like a slightly sunburnt elbow, or a fatally catastrophic life-altering event that forces you to reassess your very existence.


Sometimes, the sheer meekness and mildness of a hangover can be a stupendous victory that makes you feel like a superhero with a liver and stomach made of titanium (I think they call that particular superhero ‘Low-Density Corrosion-Resistant Transition Metal Major Organs Man’). Those nights when you start on the beer, then have a few cheeky wines, then some bright spark suggests Jagarmeister, then before you know it you’ve got your face in a bucket of Sambuca and someone is preparing a syringe with which they mean to inject absinthe into your eyeballs, and you wake up the next morning to nothing but a slight headache and an ambiguous stain on your lapel.


These hangovers are worth celebrating. You are clearly bionic and incredible, and that deserves a pat on the back and a massive full English breakfast, a stroll in the park feeling fresh and breezy, and quite possibly a few cheeky beverages later on in the day to thank your body for being so utterly super and brilliant.

And when those nights of absinthe-injecting and tequila-inserting and Sambuca-snorting do catch up with you, and you wake up to cataclysmic devastation and horrible awfulness and a cat is on fire and people have died, you don’t mind so much, because you know you ruddy well deserve it.


But sometimes your body doesn’t want to play. Sometimes your body thinks ‘Hey. You. Person that I keep alive. You’re going down, you hear me? You gowin daaaaooowwwwnn.’ (Yes, my body sometimes does a Samuel L. Jackson impersonation. It’s confusing, but fun.)

After a hard day at work you think to yourself ‘I’m going to imbibe a couple of well-earned alcohol beverages because I have been productive, efficient and generally smashing today, and what harm can a mere two glasses of wine do to my most excellent body?’ And you pop down the pub. You consume said two drinks, perhaps three, if you have one forced upon you or there’s a sudden and unpredicted thunderstorm outside and to leave the premises would be dangerous. Then you go home and you go to bed. It is a perfectly pleasant evening.

And then you wake up and you feel like this:


Your second emotion is confusion. Your first emotion is an intense wish to die, but you quickly pass over that on the grounds of it being dramatic. You are confused. Why has this happened? Why do you hurt so? Who hates you? Did you really only have two drinks, or did you have thirty, get chucked out of the pub, mug an old lady, steal her pension, use it to buy Special Brew and White Lightening, find a bush in a park, drink £80’s worth of almost illegally-strong alcohol in said bush, gatecrash a student party and achieve a record for sucking the contents of a bottle of vodka up your bottom through a straw, steal ninety-five cans of cheap lager, drink them all whilst standing on your head and get a cheer for vomiting into a pint glass and then mixing it with Lambrini and drinking it, then fly to Dublin, wipe out an entire village of its Guinness, fly back, and get hit by a transit bus carrying holidaymakers to their plane to Malaga?


These hangovers are confusing. They’re unfair. They are disproportionate to the amount of alcohol you consumed. The ratio of fun to pain is deeply unbalanced. They are nefarious. They are like a malicious Pain Lord wreaking havoc in your innocent body with his pointed stick and his penchant for inflicting misery. They are not to be trusted. They make you doubt yourself. They make you think you are destined to a life of tea, coffee and fizzy pop, ultimately leading to stained teeth and offensive wind. You begin to yearn for liver disease.

Hangovers make you slow. If your hungover motor ability was a tortoise, it would be jeered at by the other speedier tortoises.


Hangovers confuse your stomach. One minute you are gorging on fried sausages and two loaves of bread, and the next you experience that phenomenon of Sudden and Categorical Certainty that You Will Vomit if You So Much as Move a Millimetre of Your Body.


So, dear listener, let that be a warning to you. Next time you fancy a quick drink down the pub, think again. That quick drink may be your undoing. That quick drink may change your life. That quick drink may force you to watch forty-seven videos of squirrels falling off walls and babies laughing at paper on YouTube.


Becky says things about … farting in pubs

So you’re in the pub having a drink with your chum on a Saturday night. You’re cheerful, you’re relaxed. Hell, it’s Saturday, you’ve weeded the driveway, you’ve eaten some cake, you’ve finally got that red wine stain out of the lounge carpet, you’re filled with a sense of general wellbeing and personal achievement, and you have a refreshing cold beer. You’re having a great chat about the particularly tasty omelette you made yourself for lunch, and your chum’s just told you a hilarious joke about a weasel and a block of Emmental, and all is right with the world.

Then suddenly, all becomes not right. For in the tip of your nasal receptor – your nose, if you will – something stirs. You sniff tentatively. Can it be? Has the terrible thing actually happened? You sniff again. Your chum sniffs. You both sniff. You look at each other.

You sniff again. And you know, without hint or trace of a doubt, that the terrible thing, the thing you wanted least in the world to happen, has happened.

Someone has farted.

Someone has released an acrid, devastating, noxious gas into the atmosphere, an atmosphere that is filled with bodies, carpet, beer, wood, no air conditioning and only one open window, and this dire, malignant vapour is slowly but surely steaming through the humid, carbon-dioxide ridden air, and there is nowhere for it to go. You are trapped.

Not only are you trapped, but the pernicious fumes are made up of particles of the inside of a bowel whose owner has spent the day in the pub. You see, it has been a lovely sunny day, and pub gardens have been filled with good-humoured folks enjoying beer in the sun; unfortunately, it is now 8 o’clock, and six hours of beer festering in a gut and mixed with the quick kebab from across the road at half four has created an almost lethal poison, which is now making its way into your delicate nasal passages, and that putrid, fetid taste you’ve got at the back of your throat is the taste of the inside of someone’s rotting, beer-saturated bowel.

And the people around you smell it too. Some have passed out, some have died, some have merely crinkled up their noses and stepped away, pretending they know someone down the other end of the pub. But in this group of victims, is the culprit. Someone in the pub knows what they have done. Someone has been too drunk to register the swelling in their colon, that bulge making its way down to the exit, and before they know it their pants have filled with a clammy heat, and they have thought ‘Ooops. I’ve released a gust.’

But ‘Ooops’ isn’t good enough, my friends. ‘Ooops’ will never get back the nice conversation you were having before The Fart. ‘Ooops’ will never bring back the memory of what it smells like not to smell The Fart. ‘Ooops’ will not explain to your mother that you have been killed by a deadly venom more potent and more lethal than VX poison gas, which, as we all know from watching The Rock, melts off your skin and eats away at your spinal cord until you die an excruciatingly agonising death.

The moral of the story is: do not fart in pubs. And if you begin to smell that rancid, putrid, malodorous stink, run. Just run.

Then return, find the culprit, and beat them with a table leg to within an inch of their disgusting, smelly life.