The morning after the night before.

Dreaming of water again. Only as I wake up thirsty do I realise my body's trying to tell me something, but as usual my first thoughts are chiefly preoccupied with where am I and how did I get here? Another typical evening at the pub last night, but I'm only fairly sure of that thanks to the nation's ever-increasing tendency to binge-drink. If only I could remember past this sketchy outline! Such a shame that it seems to be the only thing we know how to do as far as the rest of Europe's concerned. If the brawling shouting swaying mob I've accustomed to being a part of is anything to go by, it's hardly our striking tolerance for drink that makes us kings. And as a groggy consciousness finally resumes, albeit with startling blanks, the question on everybody's lips (besides the vomit) is - was it worth it?
At this precise moment in time I'm inclined towards the negative. What a surprise. But why oh why will I forget that before next weekend comes whizzing around with all its fake promises of shining fun and inebriated glory? There must be something about alcohol that makes our abuse of it justifiable - after all it is Britain's favourite pastime. Getting drunk is fun, isn't it? I mean that's indisputable - why else would we flock to these alcoholic establishments in our millions? All I'm starting to question is, if you can't remember it, how do you know it was the best night of your life? I suspect there'll be more on the topic, especially if these day-long hangovers persist.