That initial feeling of discomfort when you wake up the morning after the night before is a minor blessing, compared to the moments of utter horror that follow for the rest of the morning and the remainder of the day!

There is nothing more stomach clenching then being faced with the reality of your actions. At the time, those tequila shots seemed like a very good idea. In fact they were so good for both your mind, body and soul you suddenly became the messiah of the bar, club and pub as well as the designated MC for your Uber. That air of confidence (that you certainly didn’t need any more of) meant you were confident that all the bad life choices you were about to make, were in fact wonderful.

Your walk becomes a strut, the hair flick is on point and you suddenly wonder why you haven’t been hauled through the doors of every modelling agency in London and been inundated with offers. Well tonight is the night clearly.

Having had your fair share of the bar, you then think its wise to entice people with your scintillating conversational  skills. I mean after all, you are the bloody messiah- people need to hear your choice words of wisdom. So on having enchanted your bar comrades with your thoughts on Brexit, world peace and what you had for dinner last night, its off to the dance floor you go.

Aha, you spy a nice gentleman; cue some seriously tragic peacocking moves as you suck them in with the best of your D.floor moves. Yup, you’re even nodding your head to say ‘I have so got this in the bag’. Beer goggles are at their absolute peak, but you are none the wiser- you even get a thumbs up from your house mate (he must be gorgeous then- if only this was remotely true). Fast forward a couple hours to when you actually start to consider just how hungry you are. All thoughts of lover boy on the D.floor have been bypassed as you start hyperventilating at just what goodies you could be devouring.

You leave said bar and find a Gordon’s Chicken round the corner. You raise your eyebrows at the man behind the counter, otherwise known as Mr Chicken. You’re a familiar face in Gordon’s, potentially in the running for best customer. You look at the amateurs next to you who have clearly never been. They’re getting it all wrong and as much as you would like to help them, you’re there to do a job. Mr Chicken gets your drift and allows you to go straight to their VIP service round the ‘other side’ of the counter. In less than thirty seconds, you are leaving G.C’s with your chicken ‘to go’ and are now making a swift get a way in your Uber.

On waking the next morning, you see there is a number in your phone you don’t recognize. ‘Ah’ you think knowingly ‘Mr D Floor’ – which is exactly what you save it as, as you cannot actually remember said gent’s name. It doesn’t take long before you are enlightened by just who this mystery man is, when your phone starts to ring. It is not Mr D floor, but in fact your Uber driver (Donal), informing you that you have a £70 bill for throwing up Gordon’s finest chicken across his back seat.

All in all the morning after the night before rarely is welcomed with open arms.