Port- Don’t Drink It Ladies and Gentlemen!

Posted on February 23, 2009

On Friday night I felt a bit down, so I sat down with my mate Steve Ballard and drunk my first bottle of Vintage Port since my record breaking hangover of Boxing Day 1992 when I sat up with my Dad and did exactly the same stupid thing aided by about 3 kilos of that hallucinogenic drug called Stilton. You may have heard of it, some people call it cheese.
Port’s hangover qualities really are second to none, not only do you screaming headbanging headache associated with ten pints of Stella, you also get the washing machine on full spin stomach that confuses you to such an extent that you don’t whether to throw up or shit yourself.
I knew as I drunk the stuff, that the consequences might not be great, but I awoke to worse than I imagined, it felt like my heart was beating in my head! Not only that, I had to go to football with my youngest son.
Thankfully Pete was driving as there is no way I could have contemplated it, I could barely see, or talk, or do anything other than sit still. The car journey was awfull, I think Pete must have gone on a ramp finding mission, and every time he braked I thought I was going through the windscreen, I was jibbering wreck.
As we arrived at the football I felt like a crack head going through cold turkey, and I was so relieved to get a pint off bitter down me, a bit like a heroin addict getting some morphine. The second one made me pissed again and I temporarily became more sociable and able to function. The game was dire, Reading well beaten on a warm early spring afternoon which made feel worse as I was dressed for 4 degrees more usual of late, not 13c and warm sunshine. I needed it to be cold like two weeks ago.
God this was awful. I disguised my feelings from my son Harry, and convinced him that it would be fun to have a take away our rather than go out to dinner, this way I didn’t have to eat anything, I couldn’t face it. I certainly didn’t want to create a scene by vomiting down someones back in pizza express, and there was not a chance I was going to drive anywhere.
Bedtime took an age to come but I eventually went at about 12.30am though the few pints of bitter had digested, and the Port hangover had re-emerged big time. Harry sleeps with me when he stays over which is nice, but it is like going to bed with Jack hammer on the edge of a cliff, he just wont stay still, so I had a night of fitful dreams and panic attacks. It was horrible, at one point I thought there was a rat in the bed!
I awoke yesterday, where my condition had at last become critical but stable, and the worst was over and by yesterday evening I allowed myself out of intensive care and ate a cornish pasty, my first food for 24 hours. It was disgusting, a good old Ginsters poison pastry, but at least it was something and it stayed down, maybe I was going to live after all.
Do not drink Port folks, it is sweet and sickly, and is very strong, and it will give you a hangover that makes you really, really ill. It is Monday now and I am at last bordering on feeling normal. My last sip was about 2.00am on Saturday morning, it has taken me more than two days to recover. Take heed.

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