The Monday Morning Hangover Blues
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The good thing about Londoners is that as well as working hard they also party hard and most people are listening to the same Monday morning blues as I am. But there are slight differences to be seen and they fall into specific categories commonly defined by age.
No seat for me as usual today on the tube, not that I mind being crushed so close to the next person that I can see the sweat dripping from their nostril hairs. Standing means I can bypass the usual early morning paranoia of trying to avoid the eyes of the people sitting around me.
If you aren’t paranoid before you arrive in this city, give it a few weeks and you will soon notice it creeping in, dripping into your subconscious like a leaky tap. The trick is not to give a flying fuck what anyone thinks about you, and if you are in the right frame of mind this can be an easy trick to perform but if not you’ll soon notice that for a city full of people who do a great Stevie Wonder impersonation when it comes to the homeless and beggars and casual violence towards others, wearing the wrong kind of shoes or a cheap suit brings out a sneering, hateful attitude that can have weaker minded individuals locked in their houses for weeks before harassing their doctors for prescriptions of Prozac and Beta blockers just to make it out the front door.
I wasn’t quite at that stage yet, but some mornings when standing in front of the mirror I felt like Papillon sticking his head out of the cell door asking, “Hey how do I look?” and I know the fear isn’t far away. It was starting to take more and more caffeine and nicotine each day just to keep it a bay.
The hell known as Monday morning at work arrives and then slowly departs in that cotton wool blur induced by the weekend’s alcohol intake, more commonly known as a hangover.
The good thing about Londoners is that as well as working hard they also party hard and most people are listening to the same Monday morning blues as I am. But there are slight differences to be seen and they fall into specific categories commonly defined by age.
The eighteen to twenty-nine year olds who are hated by anyone older because they can still manage to go out and drink and dance and screw all weekend, and come in with smiles on their faces, ready to do it all again on Monday night.
London is still a magical land of fun to them and they haven’t yet become bogged down with mortgages and marriages and the sleepless nights that children will bring. They still have their dreams intact and see the endless possibilities that their lives might bring. Anyone who poses a threat to their dreams or partying is a figure they either don’t take seriously or take seriously enough to rebel against. The hangovers haven’t done any real damage to them yet, unlike the thirties crowd who drink to try and turn London back into that magical land they had once known.
They too can drink all weekend but now walk into work vowing, “Never again. Never. Drinking. Again. Not on a Sunday. I’m too old for all this shit” as they grudgingly grunt good morning to each other whilst avoiding eye contact. No-one wants to see bloodshot eyes first thing on a Monday morning, and god damn that fucker who is taking so long at the coffee machine, can’t they see the pain I’m in.
Nobody in authority should mess with the thirties crowd on a Monday, their hangovers are so bad that they have no fear of written warnings and welcome the chance to tell someone,
“Fuck off, this is my hangover day your breaking into. Mess with me you tosser and I will stay off sick for a week.”
They haven’t totally given up on rebelling yet, they just don’t see anything worth the effort of rebelling against. But the combination of a hangover and shitty job gives them just the anger they need to awaken their dormant James Dean spirit and take on the workplace oppressors if one comes calling on a Monday morning.
Of course the older drinker will be suffering worse than anyone.
If you’ve hit forty or above and are still drinking hard at the weekend then the Monday morning fear is insurmountable and the only thing to do is hide in your office until the shakes pass, the redness from your nose has died down and the remaining alcohol and mouth wash cocktail vapours that make people back away and raise an eyebrow have finally disappeared. Because at that age, if you’re still drinking like a sixteen year old at school Christmas party, you start to notice people whisper as you pass by.
Or maybe it’s just the London paranoia fucking with your drink addled head again.
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Tags: boss, drinker, hangover, London, monday morning, rebel, thirty, work hangover