Whether you got a bit too big for your boots and smashed a glass or two on the treacherous ice rink that is Gari’s dance floor; or accidentally spent half your student loan at the Wally Dugg, a Friday night in Edinburgh will almost always guarantee a worse for wear Saturday morning.
You gently peel one eye open – a ‘must do’ morning practice for one to assess how much the sight of sunlight will trigger a thumping headache, likely worse than the one you picked up in Bongos the night before.
There are two outcomes, either;
(A) you deserve to feel much worse than you do and can’t quite believe how you got away with it or,
(B) attempting to move confirms you will be in bed for the foreseeable future. It will come as no surprise that outcome (B) often earns one the title of being a ‘man of very few words this morning’.
If you hit the jackpot with the former option, you will then stumble over into a designated flatmate’s bedroom, prepared to experience the morning debrief in all its glory. This is not a forced flat discussion where hot topics such as bin day, who broke the only frying pan, and the pure cheek of Tesco express tripling their prices, are contested. It is instead an endless stream of chit chat plagued with; ‘you’re taking the piss’, ‘surely not’ and ‘honestly I have no clue.’ Naturally, a cacophony of laughter and a dash of chesty coughing, courtesy of last night’s Elf bar, follows.
If you’ve done the night out proper justice, now must commence the game show element of the hangover diaries. This classically involves locating a missing item or, more frequently, flatmate. After comparing recounts of the night and sharing conspiracy theories on their whereabouts, you now find yourself well into daylight hours. The shock of such realisation usually overrules any concern you may have once had for said ‘lost and not found’ flatmate. It is at this time, the (annoyingly) chirpier member of the household proposes the idea of breakfast.
If you are like myself and cannot even look at food when hungover, then I welcome you into the medically proclaimed ‘nil by mouth’ club with open arms. The luckier amongst you can take comfort in the knowledge that a full English breakfast may cleanse you of your sins instead of making you re-live them.
However, more often than not, the tasty breakfast food you had envisioned isn’t quite what materialises. In reality, you open the fridge to a barren wasteland featuring a suspect head of broccoli, that has definitely reached its sell by date, and the remaining crust from a trusty loaf of Hovis that will undoubtedly catch fire in the toaster.
A glance around the sad-looking breakfast table confirms that the day will in fact be ‘a write off’ and instigates a state of moping that is written into house law until 7pm that evening. Whilst many a study have shown that being productive when one is hungover improves overall morale, us students like to take the weekend off from any form of study. We instead suffer the ‘hangxiety’ perpetuated by ‘slothing’ around in our pyjamas before buckling up and putting on a brave face to do it all over again.