Skip to main content

The strange confusion of the Dubai Hangover

It is an odd thing, being hungover in Dubai. I would, in fact, go as far to say that it is strangely unlike any hangover I have ever had in any other part of the world. For some reason, the tiniest drop of booze consumed here has a more drastic effect than one would reasonably expect the next day.

Conspiracy theorists may venture that some radical group is adding anti-freeze to the al-kool sold here in an attempt to punish the heathen ex-pats for their wild and lairy ways. Although legend has it that the Australians have been doing this to their grown-up grape juice for years (albeit for less moral reasons, perhaps) and it hasn't exactly harmed their consumption (or sales), has it?

Another theory would be that because Dubai has such a hot climate the effects of dehydration are much worse than in more temperate climes. This would make a lot of sense except for the fact that I am very careful to drink as much water as my skin will hold (plus an extra large glass before bed for luck) and still  invariably wake up with an evil rager the next day.

A quick poll amongst friends reveals that the Dubai Hangover is not a solo experience, with 8/10 reporting similar symptoms to me. So it can't be just that I'm a total lightweight who can no longer hold my ale due to increasing age and general feebleness. Can it?

It's a mystery. The only solution is a large stock of Alka Seltzer and/or sobriety.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…

Champix

Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …