David Ellis, On the Sauce with questionable hangover cures

I believe I have  experienced every kind of hangover commonly known, as well as the rarefied set that materialise only in fixed circumstances — say, the numb-cheeked daze that follows a 12-hour lunch or the midday malady that trails breakfast Martinis. Getting older, and with that more worn out, they have worsened; death seems to beckon with its blackened fingers some mornings. I have sat in showers, had seasick stomachs and moustached teeth, a head with a dent, and eyes so dry it’s a toss up between using drops and WD40. And you think yours are bad.

Aside from the miracle days, the get-out-of-jail-free days — some people buy lottery tickets, but it’s hell — and even the gentlest of moving about gets the system slowly croaking into life. Besides, it’s a distraction; if you’re lying in bed — well, there’s only the pain to think of. Somewhat irregularly, I have found putting on a crisp white shirt helps too; it is harder to dissolve when dressed up. The clothes urge you to perform.