No. 17 Drunken Recovery Times

Hot dingle. Jeffman fears he might be getting old. The pieces are slowly but surely slotting into place. Pull out the scorecard and tick the appropriate boxes.

Greying hair. Check. Expanding waistline. Check. Aching joints. Check. They’re all there. But there’s one thing Jeffman never expected. The thing that creeps up on you like the ex-scoutmaster your mother used to tell you to keep away from and stamps the card of all right-thinking men across the land. The ones that have reached the an age when they should really know better.

I refer, of course, to a man’s tolerance to the demon hangover and the unreasonable period of time now necessary to put aside when accommodating recovery from a day and night on the sauce.

Gone are the days when Jeffman could drink the greater part of Mitchell and Butler’s stock of a Friday, then get up footloose and fancy-free of a Saturday lunchtime and be back in the pub for three, to stagger home around five Sunday morning, safe in the knowledge of a job well done.

Then be fit and fruity for work come Monday.

But sadly those days have gone. This aging frame has unfurled the white flag and the liver has sounded the last post. Resulting in the time it takes Jeffman to recover from a full-on, liver-busting, wench-worrying, goat-herder of a session – the likes of which Ollie Reed and Keith Moon would’ve thought twice about before jumping on board – ranging anywhere from an entire day, to three of the buggers.

Man alive! I’ve never known the like.

Now don’t get me wrong. Drunkenness as a career path is neither big nor clever. It is fraught with pitfalls from the outset, which can lead to the strangling of one’s beloved, closely followed by a yearlong ban from the pub of one’s choice.

But it’s a fact that every right-thinking man of this isle that doesn’t harbour a deep-down desire to one day be able to recite The Wizard of Oz backwards, has at some point in their life consumed enough of god’s own nectar - and its assorted relations - to drop a herd of randy elephants. We are a nation of boozers. End of story. We come from a long line of proud warrior stock. The type of men that would paint their faces blue and charge into battle, three sheets to the wind.

To even have entertained the fact that 24-hour licensing would’ve brought about a continental approach to getting leathered, displays an ignorance towards the humble Brit of epic proportions. Can you really imagine one of our fine, upstanding countrymen sat outside a bistro at four in the morning, sipping on a Pernod and Ribena, or whatever the deuce it is that Johnny Foreigner sees fit to tipple on when he’s not contemplating starting wars, tormenting dumb animals, or engaging in some act of surrender?

Which brings us back to Jeffman and his premature aging, complete with embarrassing recovery time escapades. As I said, it creeps up on you like a choirmaster in the vestry. At no point did I agree to sign on to the National ‘Lightweight’ Register. Nor will I ever.

There are two roads out of such a predicament. Firstly to desist from drinking, as of now, and never again experience the musky, yet sweet aroma of a barmaid’s apron. Or secondly, to never allow the recovery period to catch up with you in the first place. Sobriety’s not all it’s cracked up to be anyway. It only causes worry, doubt, and something they refer to as ‘facing up to your responsibilities’. Permanent inebriation erases all that.

I know which path I choose. The path of the barmaid’s apron.

*hic*… You have been warned.

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