Beer Gut

Of course drinking, whether that’s beer or another poison makes you fat. And whilst I concur that alcohol is to blame, I don’t believe it’s the calories in the alcohol that’s necessary at fault. It’s a little more complicated than that.

It’s not what you drink. It’s what you eat, when you’ve had a drink.

Last Thursday was a fairly typical night out. I was meeting a friend straight after work at 6pm. Drinking on an empty stomach is of course churlish. So on route to our meeting pub I grabbed a stomach-lining burger. Yuk. I then met my friend and proceeded to drink at a rate far higher than my comfort zone (this is what happens when you drink with friends, yet people will claim that drinking alone is the first sign of a problem – I beg to differ). To defer the effects of this peer-pressure-piss-up, I stuffed my face with peanuts and crisps.

Around 9.30 we both agreed that something more substantial was required to soak up the excess alcohol if we were to continue with our little social revelry, and headed for the nearest curry house, where we consumed vast quantities of vindaloo and tiger beer.

Then onto a club.

I left my friend around 3.30am and headed straight home. Or so I thought.

The next morning I awoke, rolled over and horribly the final events of the previous night came back to me. I half opened my eyes and could see the evidence of my disgusting indiscretion in front of me, strewn across the marital bedroom. I felt guilty and I felt sickened. Under the influence of alcohol, I had succumbed to forbidden pleasure.

I had come home with a kebab!

I am 38 years old. I understand I can not blame stupid mistakes on alcohol; that does not make everything alright. But in my defence, I can honestly say I would never bring a kebab home when sober.

Luckily my wife Jo was working a night shift, so I was able to rise early and quickly clear away any incriminating evidence of my illicit indiscretion. But it didn’t stop there. I had tasted forbidden fruits (well actually lamb, fat, grease and chilli sauce), and I wanted more. With a hangover to end all, I cooked myself bacon and eggs. And much, much worse: fried bread.

Come mid-day I was still feeling well and truly out of sorts. Everyone has there own bizarre and often incomprehensible hangover cures. For me, when things are really bad, when I reach lunch time and the Nurofen is quite simply not targeting anything, it’s Super Noodles. So a trip to the village shop was in order.

My dog Lily simply loves travelling anywhere in the back of the land rover, so I took her with me. It was only fair; I hadn’t given her much attention this morning. Whilst she waited in the back of the 4X4, I picked up my noodles, a bottle of Lucozade (normally following a drinking session I supposedly re-hydrate myself via coca cola, but on extreme days, such as today, the big guns of pop are called for), and a bar of chocolate.

Lily had been the perfect pet all morning. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not the most obedient dog; she loves everyone and displays that love by pissing on them. She barks excessively at her own reflection and will eat almost anything; shoes, cushions, radiators, doors (but strangely enough – not leftover kebab). But she understands when I have a hangover, and knows when to keep quiet. Definitely Mans Best Friend. So I picked her up some well earned doggy treats.

Walking back to the car I took a massive swig of Lucozade. I was in urgent need of a sugar boost and so hurriedly opened the packaging and took a big bite. Instantly I was hit with intense flavours of rabbit, liver and gravy. I glanced down at the bar in my hand; it was not my chocolate bar but Lily’s dog treat. Even though this treat must have been far healthier than the kebab I had eaten the night previous, I felt incredibility sick at the thought of eating such a thing. I leant against the shop window and tried to spit it out. My mouth was full of a murky brown liquid which I began vomiting. A small concerned crowd gathered which I tried to wave away with one hand whilst the other collected the rabbit-y flem. I pushed through the crowd towards the car. Even Lily who normally stands on her hind legs up at the back windscreen excitingly awaiting my return, had curled up on the floor with embarrassment.

As I climbed into the cab I heard someone chortle “Someone had a tad too much to drink last night”

How so very observant of them.