The most lyrical account of a hangover in all literature appears quite early in Kingsley Amis’s Lucky Jim. I will not spoil readers with the whole paragraph, but the protagonist, who resolves “never to move his eyeballs again”, senses that his “mouth has been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum”.

In 2018, during a morning that hewed faithfully to this description, I determined never to have another hangover. More than a year later I have honoured the pledge, and with no great exertion of will. Nor has there been much loss of pleasure from alcohol and I believe — not just hope — that I will never again wake up with a mouse’s grave for a tongue.

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