The Guilt Trip

Mood: Hungover, guilty

Style: Hangover ‘chic’: bed hair, remnants of last night’s make-up etc

Listening to: Steve Wright’s Sunday Love Songs (why?) accompanied by the pounding in my head.

What’s on today? 2:00 – get up; 3:00-9:30 – nurse hangover; 9:45 – bed

I love drinking, I do. I love everything about a big night out from the getting dolled up, the pre-outing drinks, the pub, the people, the noise, the music, the standing-outside-and-shivering-whilst-having-a-fag, the shots, more shots, the bleary-eyed taxi ride home…I even like the hangover in some ways – it’s an excuse to eat junk food and forgo all attempts at housework or any other strenuous / arduous task.

What I don’t live is the guilt trip that comes mixed in with the hangover, like a nasty shot of vodka nestling within an innocent pint of lager. I’m a particularly guilty person anyway; no matter what I’ve done – rightly or wrongly – I will feel guilty for it. If I ever get accused of a serious crime which I haven’t committed, I bet you anything that I would get done for it. I would’ve made a brilliant Catholic.

My good friend, Katie Cat, turned up at the pub later on with her mate, J. Now, I’ve never particularly liked J: he’s a bit of a burk and once slagged off my darling chum, Claire Bear, and her baby, Woody, calling her a slut and him ugly. So yes, I think my dislike is somewhat justified.

However, as the jigsaw pieces of the night began to form fuzzily in my head, I seemed to remember being rather rude to J, which probably didn’t go too well with Katie Cat or her other friend, E, who I have only met once before. I texted Katie Cat to apologise. She replied “no worries” (i.e. the nice way of saying “yes, you were a drunken nightmare”) and added that J hadn’t said anything to her so was probably OK with it all.

This didn’t offer me any relief though and I know the next time I see Katie Cat, I’ll be serving humble pie with our usual two bottles of red.

Monday morning rolled around. I got a text from my friend BDJ asking if he had been a twat when he saw Mr P and myself on Saturday night. The text-versation went something like this:

ME: No. Why?

BDJ: I seemed to remember being a bit of a twat, that’s all.

ME: No, not at all. Gotta love that morning-after guilt though, eh?

BDJ: Oh God, tell me about it…

It’s refreshing to know that there’s someone else out there who suffers from post-night-out-paranoid-guilt-trips. Maybe we should start going to confession together.

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This entry was posted in Comrades, Criiiiiiiiiinge, Drunkety Drunk Drunk. Bookmark the permalink.

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