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Published 14:09 3 Aug 2018 BST
Updated 17:47 3 Aug 2018 BST

Remember that Icelandic volcano that wouldn't stop erupting in 2010? Loads of flights were disrupted because they were concerned that the ash would interfere with the plane engines. It was a mess, as is your hangover. You can't stop spewing. It's like a garden hose that's got a kink in it, bursting out water at regular intervals in a bid to regain some control. Something as simple as a glass of water is enough to set you off, along with your brain whose sole job for the day is to give you warning signals that you're about to puke, in between feeding you memories of the repulsive concoctions of alcohol you stuffed down your trap last night. The butterfly effect means dozens of flights have been cancelled due to your selfish actions. Prick.
Mentally, you've left the planet a long time ago. Your body has remained, shaken and weak. You are but a vessel now, transporting goods from your stomach to the nearest toilet every 45 minutes. When the hangover bosses decide that you've carried enough, only then may you rest your weary head. No amount of repositioning can provide comfort, your body simply will not find a sweet spot to lay in. The foetal position is a good starting point, but even the home comforts of being cocooned in a uterus won't prove strong enough to battle the strong urge to spew once more. Keep at it, champ. This too shall pass. There's no shame in lying naked on the bathroom floor. Paramore probably have a song about it.
2. The Monica
Easily the most sinister hangover of the bunch, this little bugger is coming, whether you're prepared for it or not. You'll initially be lured into a false sense of comfort, believing that you've beaten the system. You wake up feeling incredible, the world is a wonderful place, Freddos are reasonably priced, Liberty X are still together, Britney's meltdown is no longer a reference point for insanity because people now understand that celebrities are just as susceptible to mental health problems as the rest of us. You feel alive. Nothing can tear you down. Today will not be wasted. You're going to socialise, be productive, maybe even figure out how to do taxes. Look at you, a cosmopolitan soul whose life is firmly under control.
Then, Copperfield shows up. Completely out of the blue, in a puff of smoke, just like magic. You, my friend, are not well. You are not well at all. Unfortunately, you're midway through a haircut and have to excuse yourself from the chair so that you can nip outside for a tactical vomit, followed by a quick weep. Half your head looks good, but the rest is a mess. You can't leave, you're still wearing the gown. This hangover is determined to ruin not only your life and mental wellbeing, but also your physical appearance. Like a wounded soldier, you return to the chopping seat. Two further tactical voms later, you emerge. Sweating profusely, grey in the face, panting like a dog on a hot day. Get home. Get to bed. Ideally, never wake up again. Today is not your day. Damn you, David Copperfield.
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