I've heard that song before!

"Blerrrrgghh. Oh my god. I am never ... drinking ... again."

Familiar words, and often spoken by countless millions over the ages.

Folks in the death-grip of a heinous hangover – after being "grossly over-served" – usually utter these words at least once in their lives.

These words are usually spoken in a woeful, desperate, brow-beaten manner, between violent heaving sessions ... making calls on the Big White Telephone ... "Hello, operator, can I speak to BEULAH? She's in EUROPE. I want to know if she would like to buy some BUICKS."

I have witnessed this many times. However, I feel somewhat smug, and a bit cheeky by announcing here that I have never uttered these words. I seem to have inherited my dad's cast-iron constitution, and must have heeded his words of advice lo those many years ago: "What the hell would I be doing puking up all that perfectly good booze I just paid hard-earned money for?"

These words ... "Never again" ...  spoken by hungover and desperate souls ... are a bold-faced lie.

Anyone who drinks to total destruction, and wakes up "laughing at their shoes", is a repeat offender.

While they may spew out these words – betwixt sessions of blowing their groceries – they know it's a lie.

I guess it's one of those faux rationalisations we all do ... like stuffing yourself to bursting at a big holiday dinner, and then moaning something about never eating that much ever again. Lies, lies, lies!

The latest adventure in "venting protein at high speed and volume" comes down the pipe in an email from a friend and fellow imbiber.

Here's the rumpus.

My Canadian mate tells me his girlfriend went out to a staff Xmas party (two, actually) last night ... the first shindig started at noon. The second was sometime later, when everyone was ejected from the first venue. She was a regular drinker, and so it was anticipated she'd come home feeling "merry" at the very least ... and fairly wasted at most.

He had to work late, and so in an extremely rare moment of responsibility rearing its ugly head ... instead of lurching out to catch up with a bunch of people who'd been drinking for 7 hours already, he opted to go home after work, to await her sodden arrival.

The fun started with the sounds of the front door crashing open, and some audible stumbling, bouncing off walls, giggling and cursing. She was in a state of dishevelment – of the sort that can only result from drinking oneself down the food chain, to somewhere just slightly above "moderately hungry squirrel".

Shoes were kicked off, clothing was roughly and clumsily shed (a couple of popped buttons on a blouse and a ripped zip on a skirt), the purse (which was being dragged) was dropped (and the contents of same strewn in a trail through the lounge), and she landed spastically on his lap.

My buddy knew what he was in store for ... she was completely fucked up.

Form there, some REALLY drunken and uncoordinated sex ensued. Once in bed, my buddy was convinced she had finally passed out some time later ... and he nodded off ... only to be awoken by the first of many, many honking sessions into the bedside trash can.

And several shambling, shuffling, zombie-like lurching movements to the bathroom, to 'launch lunch' (and drinks ... and as he says, from the sounds of it, her stomach lining and chunks of lung).

Rinse, repeat, wipe hands on pants ... this continued on into the night, the wee hours of the morning, and then well after the clock radio went off to alert sober people it was time for work.

He got up to prepare for the day's toil, and handed her the house phone to call in sick (she had thought ahead and had already taken that day off, however! Clever girl).

He laughed, and said that timing his shower was a bit of a mission, as he had to seek a launch window in between the (now dry-heaving) desperate runs of his girlfriend to the bathroom.

He got the shower in, had a coffee, and prepped for departure for work.

The sounds of more woeful whining and stomach lurching emanated from the bedroom, as he went in to say goodbye ... and he nearly got spewed on.

Out he went to catch the bus, and for reasons he can't explain, he peeked into the mailbox (the mailman woudn't have delivered that early) ... and within was his girlfriend's cell phone. He said he nearly fell over laughing.

Someone passing by the house that morning on their way to work must have noticed it on the path, and tucked it in there to protect it from any potential precipitation. Good samaritans abound!

My pal said it was the prefect comedic ending to the whole affair. He took it back into the house and left it on the kitchen counter for her, and told her where he'd found it.

This, of course, inspired some more woeful moaning ... and he couldn't help but to prime the pump one more time, by asking her if she wanted any of the leftover spicy chili from the previous night?

"BLEEERRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!"