Susan Morrison: My booze theory is worth a shout

Hens come and go in a welter of door slamming. Picture: Getty
Hens come and go in a welter of door slamming. Picture: Getty
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Alcohol makes you deaf. I can’t think how we have all failed to notice this little remarked side-effect of imbibing, but now that I have, I feel I should fire off a quick e-mail to whoever is in charge of the nation’s health, then sit back and wait for the OBE.

I made this momentous discovery last weekend in Newcastle, hen and stag capital of the North of England.

Chloe’s hen do was staying at the same hotel as me. I heard them getting ready. We all did.

She’s marrying a guy called Boaby who is thinking of moving to Australia, but that isn’t going to happen because Chloe doesn’t like spiders. Anyway, Boaby’s got red hair, which, Chloe firmly assured the gathered hens, the Australians do not like. I felt this was rather a slur on the good people of Australia, who revere the notably flame-haired Nicole Kidman, but I let it pass, mainly because I am but one little woman from Glasgow, whereas this was a sizable hen do from Dundee.

They were about four rooms away, which didn’t stop the ozone busting cloud of perfume, body lotion, hair volumiser, hair spray, fake tan top-up, more perfume and yet more hair spray seeping under my hotel room door. It was like being gassed by the Queen of The Fairies.

They left in a welter of door slamming that shook the building to its foundations and worried tourists from earthquake prone countries, some of whom were found sheltering in doorways hours later. They came back about 3.30am. Correction, they came back at exactly 3.32am, precisely.

These flowers of Dundonian womanhood had celebrated freely. They were unsteady on their pins, by the sound of the regular collisions with doors, walls, and each other. At least one (Ashley) was suffering a condition she referred to as “Ahm gaun tae boak”.

But worse, they had been struck deaf by alcohol.

Why else would these otherwise fit and healthy (apart from Ashley, obviously) young women be screaming at each other at the tops of their lungs? Clearly, a toxic cocktail of Blue WKD, vodka, fizzy white wine and several pints of cider (Ashley) had led to these young women having to bellow, shriek and scream like seagulls caught in nets until they could hear each other. Even then, the information had to be repeated over and over again.

It’s a tragedy, good people. Mind you, all that screaming would explain why they were so quiet the next day.

The force is aye wi’ Boaby Wan

Kudos, though, to Dundee, for a new way with the naming of men.

As in many a Scottish family, the lucky groom, Boaby, is named after his own father, Robert. This is the case in my own family, where we had my Uncle Bobby, and his son, Bobby. Or as we referred to them, Big Bobby and Wee Bobby, until Wee Bobby towered over Big Bobby and was promptly renamed Young Bobby.

However, Chloe’s new family is well up with the times. Their young Boaby is Boaby Twa. His father is known as (drum roll) Boaby Wan.

He would appear to be a bit of a trouble maker, Boaby Wan, since the police take a keen interest in his doings, and as Chloe shrieked out over a prone Ashley, “Boaby Wan – The Force is aye wi’ him!”

Take a bow, Dundee. Almost worth waking me up at 3.32am, precisely, for.

Under control? Under water

I can’t have been the only person who wanted to reach through the telly and put an arm around that poor woman who burst into tears as she begged for more help for her flooded home.

She’s part of the exhausted volunteer army that’s been battling the tide of stinking brackish water drowning their communities for weeks now.

She was standing next to some pointless politician who was bleating away that the government had it all under control. Well, excuse us for being contrary, but both were standing ankle-deep in water that was clearly not going anywhere soon. No wonder the poor woman was crying.

Where’s Chloe’s hen party when you need it? I’d love to see what Ashley could do to a bleating politician after a couple of pints of cider.

Hear what hour it is, time and again

Incidentally, here’s a little piece of advice I thought I’d hand on to you. If you suddenly need to know the time in the wee small hours of the morning, and you have no watch or clock to hand, simply do as I did one night last week, go out drinking with your pal and forget your key.

Yes! The door will be opened by a Yorkshireman in a dressing gown who will be grumpy, but by jingo he will tell you the time. You bet he will.

Not only that, he’ll keep telling you it all the next day.