The season after the play-offs before
01/05/04 | by Alastair Gunn

The hangover begins, briefly, in quite a nice way. You went to sleep feeling fantastic, after all. Your first conscious awareness reminds you of the way your mood was last night; positively delighted to see that mattress beckoning and then enveloping. You did earn your sleep yesterday! 

Unbeknown at this point however, something got lost last night. The cerebrum is dehydrated, the stomach has been poisoned. You may have made it home last night but direction is no longer a strong point on your CV! You’re about to find out that tart you were on to last night either didn’t make it home, or left during the night. Perhaps some tale of hideous blunder awaits you in the pub, if you dare go back there again.

The heady euphoria lasts several seconds. And then crunch. This morning is not last night. You are not wonderfully drunk. That swagger you had has relocated to a limited yet mobile area behind your right eye and it niggles for hours and hours.

Before you know it, your enforced lie-in is in danger of ruining your day. The doldrums have nailed you to that uncompromising mattress, so comfortable you hardly know that you’re her prisoner. Getting up hurts so much. It takes effort because everything is against you. But you need to because it’s well past lunch and the sun won’t shine for you at night time, will it?

Punch drunk, you throw off the party gear you loved so much last night. Stumbling round the room the only cloth that wants you is the crumpled towel. At least it’ll do the job. Late in the day, the day is just beginning. Breakfast.

With a bit of solid now lodged in your stomach, things are beginning to work again. The towel is growing on you. For a compromise, it is most uncompromising. It has that certain something - not je ne sais quoi because you know what it is. Resolve. You may still feel crap, but at least now you know what you’re feeling crap for. With resolve comes purpose.

So you get things done. By the end of the day you have more or less recovered. The towel has become a respectable ensemble of which you can be quite proud. It suits you. When in Rome…! The scant breakfast has been supplemented by a proper meal, although you need to go shopping. That can wait. You could do with some new party gear. That can wait. The last cobwebs need to leave your loaf, then you can think about letting the spiders back in.

Mind you, the future looks interesting. It was a nice bar you were in last night, drinking cocktails, clocking some nice birds. Hmm, might have to revisit, but do it properly, get some better mates along, drink champagne. Yes, you will get drunk again, for it is in your nature: got to climb to make these falls, eh! Maybe next time you get drunk, you’ll wake up sitting pretty, with a clear head. Hopefully, it’ll be in a different room, a classy hotel suite perhaps, with proper room service and fit bird all inc. to hug and kiss and boast to mates about.

Yet for the serial monogamist the choice is often made for you. Most times, you’ll end up back in that shitty flat of yours that your shitty mates keep on ruining, back with the shitty rats and shitty cockroaches. Have heart though, my old friend! One day it might stick! You might keep that bird in the bed on your arm. Keep drinking mate, and you’ll surely find a reason to as you go along.

For in football, as in drinking, thou shalt not succeed if thou doth not endeavour.