Hangovers.

You would think that as someone who has an intense dislike of both drunks and hangovers, I would have realised by now that drinking excessive amounts of vodka is not going to end well. Yet not for the first time I have spent much of the last 24 hours suffering alcohol induced torment.

This would be bad enough were it a Friday or Saturday evening but we are talking a Tuesday which meant that my post-piss-up pain had to be endured whilst undergoing the combined nightmares of both working and worst of all, commuting.

Leaving aside the small matter of my own stupidity, the thing that baffles me most about hangovers is that if alcohol is supposed to batter the senses into submission, why do mine seem to be enhanced the morning after a night on the lash? My sense of smell for example, takes on an almost bloodhound like quality which is particularly horrific when faced with the horror of a commuter train.

I do wonder if some of the bastards I am forced to travel with ever actually shower at all and who the bloody hell eats an egg sandwich on their way to work? Do they not understand how vomit inducing a smell that is? And I don’t even want to think about what had caused the stench in the carriage toilet which genuinely felt like it was reaching out and punching me in the face every time the door slid open.

Of course thanks to my inbred fear of train toilets and whatever diseases/filth they harbour I had absolutely no intention of venturing inside to find out but with my stomach doing its usual trick of trying to eject its contents via whatever exit was available, I was forced to undergo the entire journey whilst alternately clenching my throat and my sphincter. A totally unpleasant experience but a necessary one judging by the Relief of Mafeking style fart and subsequent pebble-dashing which occurred the second I planted my slightly moist buttocks onto the works Karzi.

Inevitably, the acidity in said ejection resulted in a ring of fire, relief from which could only be found by either squirming in my seat or sitting on the toilet and flushing repeatedly. The latter actually proving quite handy as my stomach seemed to be producing a never ending stream of brown liquid.

Thankfully, by the time it came to head for home even my bowels had given up which for some bizarre reason made my brain think that eating a cheeseburger would be a good idea.

And having spent most of last night squitting for England for a second time in a day and with my head still banging, I have called in sick. Thus ensuring that I will be accused of being a lightweight when I venture back to my place of employment.

Hangovers….. fabulous.

sex, politics, drinking, hangover, work, life, alone, single life,

And so it begins… Adele.

I learned something new about women today.

It wasn’t that they are different from us (obvious) are mental (also obvious) and have no idea what makes the average lad tick (basic fact), it’s that they routinely use an attack on a lad to excuse their own bitchiness.

I stumbled across this by accident having once again become the object of ridicule by allowing a perfectly reasonable observation to leave my brain in the form of actual sound. Or, in other words, I opened my mouth before thinking.

On this occasion, the subject was Adele. Nothing to do with her songs of course because all lads know that they are little more than fuel for the bitterness powered engine which fuels most single women, but her fitness rating. For whilst discussing the age old subject of munters, someone mentioned Adele and even though I knew the in-house lad rating committee had her down as at a 4/10 (bordering on 5/10), I foolishly and without thinking said ‘I would.’

Even as the words left my mouth I knew I was lining myself up for all kinds of crap but for some inexplicable reason, I then added ‘well, she’s got something about her.’ I might as well have switched off the safety catch and pulled the trigger myself.

As a consequence of my own stupidity much of my day involved the receipt of various Adele/chubby chaser related jokes and photo-shopped pictures of the Tottenham warbler and myself indulging in various acts of depravity. Inevitably these pictures were discovered by one of the coven who also inevitably, felt the need to share these with her fellow witches. Given that my rating with the women at work is already at rock bottom, what passes for female logic immediately tagged me as the guilty party.

So to recap, I say a female is attractive and I’m subsequently accused of being a pig.

However, pondering the unfairness of this whilst enjoying my mid afternoon skive/dump it suddenly struck me that not one woman had considered the possibility that I might actually be telling the truth. And instead of agreeing with me that Adele might actually be worthy of a higher lad rating than the one she currently enjoys or acknowledging the fact that I haven’t fallen for the fake tits, pouting TOWIE look so beloved of my male workmates, they had instead attacked me. The question was why?

The answer, when it finally dawned on me, was obvious. It’s jealousy pure and simple. Deep down the average female not only fiercely resents any woman who is seemingly happy enough in her own skin to say she doesn’t really give a fuck what anyone else thinks but they begrudge the idea that any male might actually find that same woman attractive. Primarily because if they acknowledge the notion that a lad is attracted to someone who should by ‘normal’ thinking be regarded as less than desirable, what does it actually say about the rest of them and their drive to be ‘perfect’?

By wrapping this up and disguising it under the cloak of female solidarity, what they are actually doing is allowing themselves to attack one of their own in an effort to bring them back under the cloud of what is really self-imposed suppression. The added benefit being that they get to slaughter one of the male enemy. In this case, me.

Devious bastards all of them.

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