Memoirs of a Hangover #1

I stood there, strangling a bottle of shiraz like it had raped my mother, beads of sweat slipping from my hairline and into my eyes - I must have looked like a total psycho to any onlooking bystander. I snapped back into reality with a 'pop' - presumably a segment of my poor brain imploding. ''Fuck it'', I thought, and looked up from my bottle to find I was being evil-eyed by about five strangers, who began shuffling off again. Apparently I was in the middle of the park.
Mildly embarrassed, I hastily fucked off in a northernly direction stopping occassionally for a large slug of booze until I was finally out of sight from all the families and park wardens and such. I found a quiet green hill with a fallen tree in it that had the limbs sawn off. I brushed past the sawdust and took a seat on it, looking over at the neighbourhoods' rooftops and finishing my wine with a cigarette.
I awakened in agony to find I had dozed off, my cigarette had burned through my good shirt and I'd spilled my wine dregs beside me. ''Ma good fuckin' shirt... ya bastard!'' I muttered to myself.
Peeling myself from the log, I pointed my corpse in the direction of home and hoped for the best. I was lucky, I made it to my bed without being fined.

The morning sun pierced my fragile eyelids, sending lightning bolts straight to my frontal lobe. I crawled out of bed like a fucking troglodyte to take a hangover dump, then I made coffee and fried some bacon whilst swaying like a sapling birch in a light gale. As I was sitting down in front of the television the phone rang, causing my heart to just about explode with fright. It was Mr. Haley, my boss.
''What's happened to you today then David? Sleep in?''
''Umm.. What day is it, John?''
''You don't know what day it is? Haha, it's Monday, I'm outside in the van you alchie!''
''Aw fur fuck's sake...''

I hang up, push my heavy limbs into their respective garments, down my coffee and leave with my keys and my bacon in hand.
Sure enough, the van was parked outside my door with the radio turned right up to 'migraine', and John fumbling through all the shit in the front seats for something.
I open up and slump into the passenger seat. John looks up;
''Fuck me Davey, your face is like a prolapsed arsehole!''
''Aye, I was fisting it all night long...'' - This was a surprisingly quick response considering the state I was in.
The atrocious tweeny-bop plastic fuckery that was pumping out from the AM radio was fucking with my general psyche. I also may have still been a little bit pissed.
''Put this shit off, it's making my head split.''
John turns it up a notch, snatches one of my strips of bacon and pulls out with a fucking cheeky grin on his now punchable face.

After an hour of getting out the van, picking up bags of recycling, throwing them in the back of the van and getting back in I was starting to properly die inside. My arms and legs were shutting down. John was a chatty, bubbly kind of a guy too which made the situation a living nightmare, especially when combined with the rocking of the van and the hideous psycho babble shitting out of the radio.
After two hours I had stopped responding to the constant stream of banter and just stared longingly out the passenger seat window until we arrived at the next bag. John piped down a bit, then turned the radio off.
It was lunch time. John parked up and dived into a greasy spoon so I rolled a cigarette and puffed it out the window, thinking quite strongly of just escaping before he came back with the food. My hand was on the handle. It would be so easy and temporarily rewarding... Fuck the money - fuck the environment - fuck recycling and fuck this hangover! I could hide in a dark pub and drink a few to combat this stinking headache, then if that works I could carry on until tomorrow and never stop until -
The door unbuckles and John piles in, flinging some greasy article into my lap and slamming the door shut - popping my dream bubble, along with some more brain cells.
''Alright, munch up Davey we've no got much time pal.'' He begins chomping into his slimey, cholesterol-laden bap whilst making almost sexual noises of appreciation. My stomach folds in on itself.
Upon unfurling my sweaty, stinking 'egg & meat' roll a miracle occurs, right in the van: I am physically sick!
One long streak of brown, grainy vomit bursts forth from my mouth and nose covering my thighs. Disgusted, John curls back in his seat and sets his roll down out of puking distance. He frantically grabs for an old plastic bag from somewhere behind his seat, but it is too late. More rancid bile surges forth from my guts and splashes grimly all down my legs, covering the seat and the dash board. I am still clutching my food as if it were a witness for my possible dismissal.
''For fuck's sake, not in the van! Out! Out! Now!'', John was screaming.

Within about half an hour I was back in my bed with a nice cold bottle of beer to keep me company. Although I felt absolutely done in, a faint, yet smug smile trickled across my pasty face.