Waking up with a hangover after a heavy night of consuming one too many find, 5 too many black sambucas and the odd jack Daniels is horrific enough. Your head feels like it’s full of cannonballs, rolling around and knocking into each other and then exploding behind your eyes. Your mouth feels as though somebody removed every last drop of moisture from it, coated your tongue in sand and then left some small dying and decaying animal underneath it. You lift your head an inch above the pillow and you survey the room around you, your clothes lay in a crumpled pile, there’s a half drunken glass of wine which you can smell from across the room, some remnants of coins are strewn across the floor, you have that “god, how much did I spend?” guilt and then you spot it. Next to your pillow. Just the mere presence of it fills you with dread as the blood rushes from your face and flashbacks of the night before flood your senses. Trying to dance to Blurred Lines like one of the models but coming off more the dancing pony in the three advert, switching up drinking singles for doubles, the ladies toilets being out of toilet roll so having to drip dry, drunk texting your crush, that second sambuca. Wait, rewind.

You open your phone messages thinking that perhaps you got it wrong, perhaps you just considered texting but didn’t or maybe you…. Oh wait no look. You did text your crush. Alot.

There’s two kinds of drunk texting. There’s the fun drunk texting, flirting, suggestive, playful – perhaps leads to minor embarassment the next day but nothing you can’t handle.

And then there’s the verbal vomit kind of drunk texting. People say that there’s nothing truer than the words spoken when drunk. I agree with this, so much so that they should just get all the world leaders to sit in a room watching a Danny Dyer film with a bottle of jäger and do shots each time he says the word “fackin”. Then they should sort out their issues, hug each other, go back to their country and lead everyone into not being such wankers and having wars and stuff.

Verbal vomit is the amalgamation of days, weeks, months of stuff that you wanted to say sober but never found the way or had the balls to say spewing itself all over a text message and sending itself to somebody else. Projectile verbal vomit that just keeps flying out and sending regardless of whether the poor person on the other end has replied or not. And the thing is that the person reading won’t take what you’re saying seriously because it’s evident that you’re drunk and therefore the words lose their sincerity when diluted with gin.

The next day when your iPhone twinkles at you smugly with this “I know what you did last night” look on it’s screen you’re faced with the horror of shamefully deleting verbal vomit or reading them back.

The walk of shame from someone’s house with your hair all crazy, lipstick round your mouth and your underwear in your clutch seems a much less mortifying situation than having to send the text of shame to your drunken text recipient. I sometimes feel that despite it being morally wrong, you should lie through your teeth. Pretend your phone was stolen, pretend you were abducted by aliens, pretend it was all a big joke at their expense, pretend you’ve died – they’re all viable options.

The best thing to do is to face up to the situation. You’re big enough and stupid enough to drink to the point where being honest seemed acceptable so you may as well suck it up and apologise. Profusely.

Of course, it may not work because the recipient may still think you’re a massive bellend but it’s the adult thing to do (and you are a massive bellend).

Moral of the story? When you’re drunk give your phone to your friend to keep hold of for safe keeping, or drop your phone in your drink to render it useless.