Poverty Princess VS Hangovers From Hell

It’s a well-known fact that the older you get, the longer the hangover lasts. I go too hard on the £10 Prosecco in Spoons on a Thursday, I don’t recover till a Sunday afternoon. You also lose control of your mind, body and soul a lot easier. Last Thursday, under the influence of the Spoons Prosecco, I laughed so hard a bit of pee came out. Just a tad, so it doesn’t count as full on wetting myself. I did however stay at my main chick’s Jenny’s after and have to go commando for uni the next day, which is degrading enough. I haven’t veeted since October 30th and nobody makes jeans with my waist size and leg length combo, so it was a risky game until my dad dropped underwear off at my nans at 2.30pm. I was taking my niece to a Christmas Fayre where the children had gathered to see Father Christmas’ beard, not a Poverty Princess’ pubes.  The good thing about Raymond Ashton? He never asks questions.  On the Sunday I got so drunk I left my phone in an Uber and had to bribe the driver to return it with a tenner. I then had the screaming craps for two days.

Thought the duration is longer, I will never experience a hangover quite like the time I mineswept in Mojos and hit a bomb. I was 18 and poor, working for £2.50 and hour in a hairdressers. A glass of red winked at me and the next minute it was four hours later and I was vomiting over my friend’s shoulder in Heebies Courtyard. Before it got all fancy with tables and chairs. I proceeded to vomit in a taxi and woke up on my friend’s bedroom floor, swimming in piss. I then had to go straight to Hope Street in all his clothes, underwear included, to do a street performance of mute volleyball. I was rolling on the cobbles in the pouring rain, jaw swinging. Still somehow managed to wing a Merit in Community Arts. Community Colleges are the definition of getting points for showing up. Whether under the influence of unwanted Ket or not.

There is also the time in Kavos, after skinny dripping with a stranger, I was so fucked I couldn’t open the door to the apartment and thought my friends had been proper snids and locked me out .Really I was just pushing a door that needed to be pulled. I passed out on a sun lounger and woke up as a lobster with third degree burns. Turned into a proper boss tan though.

No matter how drunk/hungover I get, I always wake up the next day glad I’m not my friend. Let’s call her, Susan*. She’s the momma of hangovers.

We all know a Susan. Susan loves a bev. She likes cider, wine and vodka. All at the same time. Susan once climbed on the counter of Krunchy Fried Chicken and tried to exchange an iPhone for chicken, yelling ‘It’s a good phone, just take it!’. Her mum woke her up the next day on her doorstep. Susan once simultaneously vomited and farted on my thigh as I was burping her outside Baa Bar. She’s also done this on a motorway on the way to an airport, after going round too many roundabouts. Susan gets travel sick on the 82 to town, add in a hangover and its game over. Susan once vomited in a plastic bag on a coach with a locked toilet from Edinburgh to Manchester, she didn’t get to empty it until Glasgow. Susan once vomited in the teeny, tiny gap that used tickets go in on a train home from the Warehouse Project, after turning 50 shades of green. Susan disappeared at Leeds Festival ’10 with Spiderman and later text her friends pretending to be at the Silent Disco, describing it as ‘Fun Init’. Susan is a real messy bitch. Also, the word pashmina reminds her of vagina.

Susan is now a full-time bar maid who pole dances for fun. Init.

The hangover tale I’m about to share with you now is a verbatim voice note my friend Anthony Edwards* shared with me, regarding his mother of all hangovers;

“This is a voice message, about the time when I fell asleep in Mojo. So it was just like any other night really. I come home from London, where I was studying, and it was Ella Minani’s* birthday. So, we decided to have drinks in Ella’s house. So we are having a good time, dancing around, taking pictures. You know, what cool people do. So we were just chilling and things got fun, you know, just having a little bevvy. Time goes on, we go into town, have a little boogie. But what we drank earlier, it wasn’t… it wasn’t enough. So, one thing that escapes me however, I think… I’m not sure if this same evening we met… so, me Lucky* and Margaret* and Persian Princess are having pre-drinks in Persian Princess’ house and we went into town and there I think we met Elsa* and Sparky*. I think this was second year.  So me,  Elsa and Marcus are in Heebies’ Basement, having a good time, probably some banger came on, we all went to the dancefloor, we were all sitting down in one of the arches. Just chilling, having a little rest from our boogie… and Sparky spots a baggy on the floor. We go and pick up the baggy. Excitedly. And then we all decide together, in a group effort, that it would be a good idea to have some of the baggy. We do. So we have the baggy and we’re like let’s change place, so we go to Mojo. Cause in Mojo you can steal. We’ve already stolen drugs, we might as well steal drinks from other people. We do this, dance on tables and have a great time.

I’m now drunk. And maybe drugged. And maybe been Rohyphnoled as well. So I decide to go to the toilet. And I guess that’s all I remember. I went to the toilet … and I guess that was my final resting place for the evening. I lock myself in and no one knew where I was. My friends not being boys, didn’t go into the toilet to find me because they just couldn’t. And they thought I’d disappeared. They left the club and went to … erm, what’s it called? That bar on the top of Bold Street, with the sign outside? I can’t remember what it’s called right now. They go there.

So my mum, having not heard from me, is worried and decides to get the car into town. She goes to this bar which my friends are at and starts questioning them as to where I am. They don’t know. They thought that I’d gone home and that I’d be with her. I wasn’t. At this point I wake up in the bar, in the toilets of Mojo. Disorientated. Phone in hand. I then proceed to leave the toilets like, ‘What the fuck? Where am I? What time is it?’. I hope to find other revellers in the club. There are none. The club is empty. I try to go out the front door. The grid is closed. I am panicking now. I then escape through the back entrance next to the bar. I emerge, well I don’t remember the journey from Mojo to the Bombed-Out Church, but I arrive at the Bombed-out Church and there was my mother in her Jaguar. I got in and I was taken home. I cried. I got home and saw my sister. I cried and I hugged her. The end.”


Moral of the blog? Don’t minesweep. Don’t do drugs. Don’t go to Mojos.

Especially don’t do abandoned drugs off the floor.

Also Mojo needs to do a more thorough toilet check at the end of the night.

If anyone wants to buy the rights to the tales of Mojo and turn it into a film, please e-mail me.

It’s a Sunday afternoon so I’m going to leave you to your own hangovers now, have a peaceful duvet death.

Happy vommin’.



*All names have been changed to protect my friends who are now fully functioning adults, kind of.




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