Hungover, red-eyed, dog-tired, satisfied
We've all been there with the beastly mornings post-binge, but none of us quite so often or so heroically as Kingsley Amis, British novelist and father of Martin. With all the practice he's had, it's no wonder he's able to pen one of the best descriptions of a hangover I've read [from Lucky Jim]:
Dixon was alive again. Consciousness was upon him before he could get out of the way; not for him the slow, gracious wandering from the halls of sleep, but a summary, forcible ejection. He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of the morning. The light did him harm, but not as much as loking at things did; he resolved, having done it once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he'd somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad.