IT'S bad enough waking up with a jackhammer headache, a sandpaper tongue, mascara-ringed raccoon eyes and a half-eaten sandwich in your hand. (What? How did that get there?)
But then you stumble into the kitchen and peer into the fridge and its contents are about as appealing as the fermenting creme de menthe dregs lining the sink.
Nothing for it but to head to the takeaway shop for an iceblock, a doughnut and a Homer Simpson serve of buttered bacon.
Gross. Why can't the New Year's Day recovery process be more refined?
Sure, our bodies need to replenish after a big night out but does it really need to be with salty, greasy, sugary junk food?
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