The 6 Painfully True Stages Of A London Hangover

It’s no secret that Londoners like a drink, and with the best bars in the world, why shouldn’t we? You might not believe it, but Londoners are in fact human beings (crazy right?) and thus we are affected by excessive intakes of alcohol just the same as anyone else. However, there are unique hungover upsets that come only to those who of us who live in the nation’s capital…

 

1. When you wake up…

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Fuck… I’m awake! Am I? Yes. Okay.. Where am I? No seriously where the fuck am I?! You’re in Epping. Yep. We know you live in Wimbledon but somehow your East London Frienemy convinced you to go back to their place and now you’re a good two(ish) hours from home. Hope the after party was worth it!

 

2. What happened last night…?

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For non-Londoners this thought involves flicking through your camera roll and laughing merrily at the hilarious shenanigans of last night’s outing. For Londoners however, this thought comes with a shriek of agony as we desperately check our bank statements and absorb the damage made by our drunken personas. I actually spent £24 on a cocktail because they used ‘high grade imported sugar free’ rum?! Cue regret and self loathing.

 

3. Where are my belongings?

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More specifically: where is my mother fucking oyster card? You’ve gone and lost it haven’t you… and now the idea of some jammy bastard tapping in taking a loooong trip on the tube courtesy of your oyster is going to haunt you for the rest of the week.

 

4. Who did I talk to last night?

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This question is a little harder to answer in London as you probably have more than one contact with the last name ‘Tinder’ in your phone… ooops.

 

5. I. Need. Food.

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This is also about the time that you start resenting all those ridiculously priced edgy pop-up cafes. No I don’t want to pay £15 for half a haddock sandwich on rye-sour dough bread, just get me a fucking bacon sandwich with extra ketchup… and maybe some fries. You’ll be back at HIIT tomorrow so it’s okay… and no one can work out hungover anyway!

 

6. Am I dying?

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It’s Saturday, is it too early to call in sick for Monday?! What if I actually don’t make it that long? Imagining sweating along the Northern line at 7:50am is already turning your stomach. Back to bed with you, little Londoner.

 

 

Feature Image: [flickr: annie mole]

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