Joe gets smashed.
My colleagues have been making fun of me all day. The pricks. So I got somewhat tipsy on Friday night (Ok, maybe totally smashed is more accurate). So I fell asleep on a coffeeshop table. So I wobbled in the arms of another man for a bit. So I puked in a taxi. Still, that’s no excuse to start a briefing with “Rough ride home, eh?”
I have a vague recollection of what happened. It was a drinking game. I should have known better. Drinking games are to me what football is to Titus Bramble, what singing is to Celine Dion and what elections are to my dear government. In other words, I am not very good at them. And so, on Friday night, a causal relationship was conclusively proven, namely that drinking games = Joel gets comprehensively and utterly wasted.
I remember somehow making it to my room, plopping down my bag of vomit which I’d inexplicably decided to spend the night with, and collapsing gratefully on my bed. It was just as well that the dog was asleep or else, had she come charging out barking like a lunatic, I’d surely have defenestrated (Look, Nessa! I used the poseur word!) the vile hound.
Now, the only thing worse than being completely drunk is waking up the morning after, which I did with a start. Where was I? What were these colourful things floating all around me? Why did the whole place smell like the inside of a whale? All meaningful questions which were left unanswered because my brain suddenly remembered what the consequences would be if my mother found me in such a state of degeneration. She’d previously found me in a similar condition lying face down on the couch and deemed it fit to unleash a fiery full-lunged bellow not two centimetres from my ear. Needless to say, I barely stirred but there was hell to pay in the following days.
Wanting to avoid another such episode, I dutifully disposed of the bag of vomit which was beginning to resemble beer batter in its lumpiness. Must have been the carbonara I had for dinner. Then I went into the bathroom and stood under the shower for a long time. Not because I thought it’d clear my head, but because I’d fallen asleep standing up.
Having been thus cleansed, I needed a hangover cure and so off I toddled to NTUC in search of Berocca where I made the joyous discovery that I had lost the ability to read. I would have to try to recognise the packaging. You might know that Berocca traditionally comes in little green boxes as do about 40,000 other items in any given supermarket so my match-the-colours plan of action perhaps wasn’t the brightest. And why didn’t I just ask the sales staff? Cos I couldn’t talk, you idiot. What would’ve have come out would’ve been “Wah dah Bwa Bra” which would’ve gotten me punched in the face, though that’s how I already felt like anyway. Still, I somehow emerged clutching my thirty B and C vitamin pills like they were the most precious things in the world. Which they were. Barely an hour after popping one, I felt almost normal. Now I don’t know what to do with the other 29.
I have a vague recollection of what happened. It was a drinking game. I should have known better. Drinking games are to me what football is to Titus Bramble, what singing is to Celine Dion and what elections are to my dear government. In other words, I am not very good at them. And so, on Friday night, a causal relationship was conclusively proven, namely that drinking games = Joel gets comprehensively and utterly wasted.
I remember somehow making it to my room, plopping down my bag of vomit which I’d inexplicably decided to spend the night with, and collapsing gratefully on my bed. It was just as well that the dog was asleep or else, had she come charging out barking like a lunatic, I’d surely have defenestrated (Look, Nessa! I used the poseur word!) the vile hound.
Now, the only thing worse than being completely drunk is waking up the morning after, which I did with a start. Where was I? What were these colourful things floating all around me? Why did the whole place smell like the inside of a whale? All meaningful questions which were left unanswered because my brain suddenly remembered what the consequences would be if my mother found me in such a state of degeneration. She’d previously found me in a similar condition lying face down on the couch and deemed it fit to unleash a fiery full-lunged bellow not two centimetres from my ear. Needless to say, I barely stirred but there was hell to pay in the following days.
Wanting to avoid another such episode, I dutifully disposed of the bag of vomit which was beginning to resemble beer batter in its lumpiness. Must have been the carbonara I had for dinner. Then I went into the bathroom and stood under the shower for a long time. Not because I thought it’d clear my head, but because I’d fallen asleep standing up.
Having been thus cleansed, I needed a hangover cure and so off I toddled to NTUC in search of Berocca where I made the joyous discovery that I had lost the ability to read. I would have to try to recognise the packaging. You might know that Berocca traditionally comes in little green boxes as do about 40,000 other items in any given supermarket so my match-the-colours plan of action perhaps wasn’t the brightest. And why didn’t I just ask the sales staff? Cos I couldn’t talk, you idiot. What would’ve have come out would’ve been “Wah dah Bwa Bra” which would’ve gotten me punched in the face, though that’s how I already felt like anyway. Still, I somehow emerged clutching my thirty B and C vitamin pills like they were the most precious things in the world. Which they were. Barely an hour after popping one, I felt almost normal. Now I don’t know what to do with the other 29.
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