The Christmas party circuit is one synonymous with binge drinking, memory loss and acute embarrassment. All three are a total given. Year after year I've limped back to see my parents for a couple of days at Christmas with a sore gut, a red face and a long list of apologies. Doing daft, cringeworthy shit while being out of yer gourd on beers is, at this time of year, how you say, standard.
However, this December I managed to push this 'feeling' onto a whole new level by consuming enough red wine to brain myself on the steps of Bank Tube station. I managed to knock myself out and subsequently woke up in A&E. I didn't stir until the morning after the night before, only to find myself in a ward full of elderly, crying types in Whitechapel hospital. I was down to me pants, hooked up to a drip and incapable of remembering how I ended up there. Whoops? Whoops indeed.
Props to any well wishes and for one Bob Funkhouse for coming to get us out of there with a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt (they'd cut the clothes I was wearing during the incident off due to me being out cold). After the patient hospital folk agreed to let us go, we walked home via a lasgne and watched DVDs for the rest of the evening. There's definitely a lesson in this somewhere as long as I choose to listen. My ears are open. Fo' sure.
The best way to recuperate from a fall is to watch Bridesmaids and listen to pounding future bass. Obvious int it...
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