Hangover Cure #24
The Sea
Hangovers are evil. They eat you up from the inside out. They create shadows in your psyche just to fuck with you. They make you sad. Make you both irritating and irritable. They make you eat foods that are bad for you. They make you listen to music you shouldn’t really listen to and watch films that should not be watched. Evil.
It is no wonder then that we dream of finding a hangover cure. A reset button. A way to return our sorry excuses of bodies to a factory setting – a time before our livers growled like animals in a Chinese zoo, before our skin had dried to the greasy pallor of a Walkers’ crisp, before paranoia twitched and writhed inside like a moth performing a death dance, before our belly had swollen to a third trimester dome.
The English sea is the closest thing to an actual hangover cure. The instructions are simple. Wake up and pull on your underwear or swimming trunks and walk in the direction of the sea. This may be five minutes or five hours – it does not matter. We live on an island. You must go to the sea. Put one foot in front of the other and walk. Ignore other people. They do not matter. Their stares do not concern you. Your only concern is the sea.
When you see the sea, smile at it. Greet it like a long lost lover but never stop walking. Walk across the sand and pebbles and seaweed and litter. Ignore the glass in your heal and the smell of brine and sewerage. Walk.
Do not insult the sea. Do not dip your toe into it like it has something to tell you. Walk into it. Do not shriek or wail – not yet. Keep on walking. Ankles. Shins. Knees. Thighs. Do not cry out when your testicles shoot up inside your body like rats up a drainpipe. When you are waist-deep throw your body into the icy folds. Submerge yourself fully. Surrender to the sea. Belly flop or dive like a dolphin – it does not matter. Stay under the water for as long as you can. Just before your lungs fill with water and you drift off towards death and France, emerge from the sea. It is now time to scream.
Empty your lungs. Let every unit of alcohol turn to sound and come pouring from your mouth. Let every paranoid thought run free – yes, you were a twat, yes, you really did do that, yes, you stole that even though it serves you no purpose, yes, you did offend them, yes, you really did buy that round on your credit card and yes, you did get cash back too, yes, you should avoid going back to that place for a week or two, yes, you pushed your luck in the bedroom, yes, you did share that story, yes, you promised too much, yes, yes, yes, fucking yes. Let it out. Scream it at the clouds, at the sun, at the rain, at the snow, at the ships bobbing on the horizon, at the wind farms, at the twinkling tinsel of another town, at the fishermen, at the waves that lap at you. If you can swim then swim. If you can’t swim then scream some more.
You should find that when you return to land that you are cured. The aches and pains and general rot have disappeared. You have been baptised and reborn. You are free to live your life until the next time.
