Tag Archives: hangover

Ask Jeeves

I was awake at 6am last Sunday. I didn’t want to be awake. I didn’t even really want to be alive. I lay in the dark, wondering what I had done to deserve such punishment. ‘All I want,’ I thought to myself feebly. ‘Is someone to bring me a glass of water and a cold flannel.’ I wondered who would be kind enough to help me. ‘No-one would be kind enough to help me,’ I moaned to myself pitifully. ‘But I would give someone every penny I had for a cold flannel on my aching head.’ Which is when I finally realised. ‘All I need,’ I whispered softly into the silence. ‘Is a butler.’

I would like to take this opportunity to advertise for a butler.

This is a very good job. Your day will begin at 9am (but you only need to be awake, and certainly not dressed or coherent. I am an equal opportunities employer). It would be nice if you brought me some breakfast, but any food you can locate will suffice. The rest of the day will vary, but most of the time, you will be treated to lightness and whimsy, as I try out new comedic material on you.

(Some of this will be offensive, and it will be part of your job to tell me which parts are. Ironically, this will not offend me in the slightest). In the evening, I will cook. If I go out for dinner, I will leave you some money so you can order a take-away. (I do not want a skinny butler. I do not trust them).

Your only real responsibilities begin at bedtime. During the night, I have a habit of kicking off my sheet, duvet and pillows. I would like you to retrieve these for me. But not in a scary way. Try to make yourself as unobtrusive as possible. No-one wants to wake up with someone leering over them holding a pillow.

On Saturday and Sunday mornings, I would like you to pop into my room from 6am onwards with a cold flannel and a promise that ‘this too shall pass’. There is no need to do anything else on the weekend- I’ll scarcely remember you exist.

At present, this is an unpaid position. However, with such an excellent method of overcoming my hangovers, I imagine my productivity will soar. I would not be at all surprised if a few weeks down the line you are earning in excess of £14 a week. Obviously, as this point I will stop leaving you money for take-aways.

 

 

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Almost Brecht

My Father called me last Saturday. I was barely alive, so I don’t remember much of the conversation. He called again on Sunday, when I was a little less hungover. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘That’s very good. We can have dinner there before. I do like Brecht.’ ‘Yes.’ I wondered what other, mysterious things I had agreed to do. I would just wait and see. It was rather exciting.

I merrily started my week, continuing to be my Mother’s PA (which I am doing either spectacularly or dreadfully it depends if she’s being sarcastic or not). The receptionist called me. ‘A gentleman keeps calling for you.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, aren’t you excited?’ ‘It’s my Father, isn’t it.’

I picked up the phone. ‘Hi Dad.’ ‘So, just to confirm, let’s meet in the foyer at 6.30 tonight.’ I was in too deep. ‘Of course! Looking forward to it! I also like Brecht! Well, I’m not sure if ‘like’ is the correct word, but yes, smashing!’ I quickly started google searching Brecht plays in London. Nothing.

I called my Father. ‘Hi Dad.’ ‘Oh hello. What’s wrong?’ ‘Oh nothing,’ I said breezily. ‘Just wondering where the theatre is.’ ‘Oh, yes. The Young Vic. It’s actually closer to Southwark.’ ‘Marvellous!’ (It is possible my Father now thinks I have some kind of over-excitement disorder, but he probably thinks Brecht will calm me down).

I popped over to the Young Vic website. ‘What’s On?’ I asked politely. ‘Disco Pigs’. I see that I am less well-versed in Brecht than I thought. I read on. ‘Pig and Runt are soulmates. They share an appetite for drunkenness, recklessness and destruction. But on the eve of their 17th birthday it is an appetite for sex that threatens to tear them apart.’

I am not sure I can watch a live performance of an episode of ‘Skins’ with my Father. I call him back. ‘Hi Dad. Obviously I’ve been looking forward to this for ages, but could you just remind me of the title of the play? It’s going to be great!’ My Father dutifully tells me we are to see ‘Street Scene’, and decides that we should meet in the foyer, rather than the restaurant. (I believe this is because he is worried about what I will order should I arrive before him).

I look back at the Young Vic website. ‘A glorious blend of Broadway musical and American opera, Street Scene won the first ever Tony Award for Weill, confirming him as one of the 20th century’s most original and popular composers.’ I’m pretty sure Brecht never won a Tony…but then I’m hardly in a position to question my Father’s attention to detail.

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