A mobile phone screams at me to awaken. I attempt to remove the brick from my forehead, but groggily realise that there physically isn’t anything there.
I make an attempt to fight the heavy-duty gravity imposed upon the immediate space around my body, and ease myself out of the bed. An attempt to stand results simply in me slithering out uselessly between the sheets and landing elequantly head-first on a pair of Adam’s nunchuks.
‘Boooo,’ I moan, in leiu of ‘ow’ for no particular reason. Adam enters the room, mutters something along the lines of how he can’t find his belt, and I snap back that there are more important issues at the present moment than belts. Trying to find where the magical woman with six breasts who has the power to grant the gift of flight ran away to, for example. I begin to explain that I last saw her running out her front door, when I realise that this was in fact a dream I just awoke from.
Adam snickers, zooms out of the room, and lets the door close behind him. In alarm, I view the door rush towards the doorframe, from my upside-down view hanging out of the bed. The door slows somewhat as it reaches the doorframe, rescued by a pocket of air, but the resulting slam is still enough to create an earthquake inside my head.
I roll over and make an attempt to stand. My vision flickers to something akin to a scrambled cable TV channel, and I stumble sideways, landing on top of a cardboard box.
Moaning, I open the door and slowly make my way down the passage. Lowering my head as I enter the kitchen to hide my eyes from the sunlight, I make a blind grab inside the pantry for a headache tablet. It is at approximately this time that I notice the half-eaten hamburger from my lunch yesterday, angrily glaring at me from the bin. The egg and bacon oozes from it in sheer mockery, emitting a smell that causes a chemical reaction in my stomach.
Adam walks into the kitchen, and I try to warn him that I need to get past quickly because I’m going to vomit. All I can manage is another ‘booooo’ moaning noise, and I throw myself headlong into the toilet, hastily contributing to it’s pool of water with a concotion of my very own.
I perform a fantastic impresination of Pavarotti singing with his mouth full, and dry reach a few times for good measure. 3am by Matchbox 20 drills its way into my subconscious for no apparent reason, and refuses to ease its venemous grasp. In such a state, this is sheer torture, and I can only handle one chorus until I’m regurgitating again. Adam makes a comment that the neighbours will wonder what we get up to every night, and I can only reply in morse regurgitation.
Matchbox 20 metamophoses into the Manic Street Preachers and it’s more than I can bear. I scramble from the toilet towards the bathroom, trying to catch my breath in between the convulsing stomach movements, and strip for a shower in the hope it will make me feel a little better.
I dizzily pull off my boxer shorts, lose balance and crash into the shower door, which graciously opens and grants me entry into the shower. I crash into a conditioner bottle and manage to crush it in such a fashion that it opens up and begins to ooze a sickly liquid from it’s opening. The smell bizarrely reminds me of the hamburger again, and I bounce back from it immediately.
I rub myself hastily with a towel and begin putting my clothes back on. As I pull my t-shirt over my head, I remember that I forgot to have a shower in the first place. Beyond the point of caring, I begin to pull my boxer shorts on and notice that my penis has decided to turn blue.
There are a few moments of feverish panic before I realise it’s fluff from our new, as yet unwashed towels.
I crash back to the safety of the bedroom and whimper under the pillow. For the seventy-eighth time, I curse that I will never drink alcohol again.