Sumer is icumen in. Enjoy. Bye ouyr Ladye, it soundes lyke un graet partie.

Bi Seynt James of Compostelle and Seynt Widesfried of Portugalle, it ben true thatte whanne thou drinkest of the strong wateres of the Rus, thou shouldst followe with the juice of the orange or of the love apple bifore thou goost to thy bedde. Thou hast neighbours most curtys, for sooth, and certayne thou art their equal in curtesye.

Duw prid, gwraig, rydich waeth na y Gatling-gwn; rhifo i'n tri milwrau marw.

oh dear.......

Fragano, I would suggest St. Bibiana (or Vibiana as she is known around here), the patroness of those with hangovers. Also for epilepsy, epileptics, headaches, insanity, mental illness, mentally ill people, single laywomen, torture victims, and the Archdiocese of Los Angeles.

Makes sense somehow, but you would have had to spend a night in downtown LA to understand.

Reminds me of Christmas 2004. Usually, Christmas means Chinese food and movies, but in the case of that year, my family and I joined family friends at Sammy's Roumanian Restaurant. I think I gained five pounds on shmaltz alone, and the vodka flowed like water.

Yum. I must go again someday.

Not the orange, bot the jus of one lind, queasen into on pinte of water, to effect of grete vertu.

And y'all added a bit of happiness to my otherwise bleak day. Praying for your CNS.

Þæs oferéode, ðisses swá mæg.

Claude: When ich have muchel drinke ytaken, and myn head resonateth lyk unto ane tambour beaten by a youth of muchele might, than do ich bethynken me of Seynt Jude, for myn cause is alle yllost. Bot ich will taken thy suggestioun into accompt.

PNH: Aye, tis a sovran remedy.

Oh, and I'd join in the linguistic games, but the best I could do is a context-free grammar (or maybe a functional program) describing a night at Sammy's...

Damn finals.

Weird. I never had a hangover getting drunk on Stolichanya/Moscovskaya.

Someone here has mixed alcohols, i say. Some sulfuric white wine maybe?

When you wake up first thing in the water feeling like hippos have been dancing in your head, drink a big glass of water and go back to bed.

Then lots of protein for breakfast. Cheese omelettes are perfect.

Yabonn: You misunderstand. "Hangover" is tomorrow's worry. We're talking more immediate effects.

Makes sense somehow, but you would have had to spend a night in downtown LA to understand.

The new cathedral is Queen of Angels; St Vibiana's been retired from the duty (as a building at least). Nice tapestry hangings in the new cathedral (pictures on their website).

Traditional local remedy on the morning after: menudo.

Must have lost my way in all the saxon. The Ibuprofennea was preventive, then?

If Teresa hasn't mixed too much, i bet on a ridiculously good shape at wake up.

In the meantine, sleep well :)

Trippe a littul wiþ þin fet ond let þin body goe.

bonum vinum laetificat cor.

or in this case... stoli. :) best drunk post ever.

Sumer is ycumen inne, ond inne the morne, loude singe cuckou! Ond at that pointe, throwe somme mannere of projectile at hymme, and gete thyneself back to bedde.

We rekomend muche of the juice of the frute of the orynge tre. Withe itt, somme of the pastilles formmed from extracte of willow, also called aspryn. Then take to thy bedde until suche a tyme as the floor shouldst stop wobbling.

Reste ye well.

"Traditional local remedy on the morning after: menudo."

Really? Sounds kind of harsh. Is it supposed to take your mind off the pain? Would an hour of Abba work as well?

Oh, you mean . . . menudo.

Drink all the water you can stand before you go to bed. It's OK if you have to hurl some; don't look for it, but don't fight the feeling either. (I would write more Chaucerianly, but I don't think I could pull it off.) Club soda is good too, being mildly basic.

Feel better. This too shall pass.

By Saint Swythyn, menudo inne the mornynge is moore than ich canne face wythoutyn any stronge liquor the night bifore.

(Dear God, has it really been THAT long since I contributed 2 articles to Wilson's Dictionary of Medieval Women Writers?)

I assure you, menudo inne the mornynge is not to be borne by at least fifti per cent of alle Nielsen Haydens, for the tripe wouldst instantly provoken the hittinge of the far wall.

Inne the isles of the Westren Inde, they drinken a hot soupe, much peppared, yclept "manish watre" which restoreth body and soule after much drinken, of rumbullion in especial. Should worke also for muchele drinken of the waters of the Russe.

Take two aspirin and all the water you can drink, and call me if you wake up in the morning.

Wow.
If she gets any drunker, can she write earlier Indo-European languages? This could lead to a paleolinguistic breakthrough!

Oh, and I hope that

heer endeth:
TNH

I assure you, she is still alive, and maken with the snoren.

Menudo has a Turkish equivalent (I don't know the name of it). If it's done properly, the tripe becomes melt-in-your-mouth and is very easy to tolerate. (I have met such a version. The woman who made it couldn't cite a recipe, though, or I'd have it in my file.)

Otherwise, I recommend Tylenol or the equivalent (for those who can take it) tonight and fluids tomorrow. (I get dehydrated easily. 'All the fun of a hangover, without the hassle of actually consuming any alcohol.') And my most sincere sympathy.

But Azerbaijani (and Persian) food is so worth eating.

Well, sleep, which knits up the raveled sleeve of care, is good, too. I vaguely remember tomato juice being recommended for that "if it's morning, I must be dying" feeling. Of course, it's also recommended for when one has been attacked by -- more correctly, for when one has been perceived to be an attacker by -- a skunk. There may be some relationship here.

"I vaguely remember tomato juice being recommended for that "if it's morning, I must be dying" feeling."

Depends. If jazzed up with enough tabasco, pepper, celery salt and Worcestershire sauce, it can help but not cure.

Same with the "hair of the dog" prescription. In my experience, that just adds to the previous alcohol content, with results one might not like.

I assure you, she is still alive, and maken with the snoren.

LOL. How Mistress Quickly of her.

Mistresse Teresa snoren longe; sleepe (with open eye or none) is the beste remedye I kowthe.

Hope she's feeling better in the morning, smalle fowles notwithstanding.

I wondre greteliche wherefor it ys that alle thynges ben funnier inne Middle Englyssche.

Boyzadee boyzadee bop, zitty bop!

Sounds like someone's been reading Chaucer's blog a bit overmuch...

O dere godde. What was going on, that Patrick was transcribing my sloshed Middle English?

(That's aside from what was obviously going down if I was speaking Middle English at all. Patrick's known these twenty years and more that that's a sure sign that I'm three sheets to the wind.)

At the moment, all I can clearly remember is a brimful cup that held well more than a double shot, and my hosts saying "Drink!"

I do hope I behaved myself.

Orange juice. Ibuprofen. Somebody shoot me.

I didn't transcribe a damned thing. TNH wrote it all by herself. (I moved one sentence and one paragraph for better storytelling impact, but that's entirely in the great tradition of one NH interfering with the other's prose.)

As for Geoffrey Chaucer's Blog, some people evidently don't know exactly how many decades TNH has spoken the Middle Englishe. Or that she was being paid to proofread it years before the Web was a glint in the eye of Tim Berners-Lee...

Oooooooog. I'm going back to bed.

The maiden is not dead, but sleepeth.

Whanne I dide rede thin poste, myn poore catte wast disturblid greetli bie myn lauffynge. Dere ladye do sleepeth welle et saaf.

Are all the alarm clocks turned off?

I'm praying Porco Bruno doesn't start roaring...

I keep thinking of Harry Truman's cure for a cold: hang a hat on the end of your bed and drink a bottle of bourbon until you see two hats. Then go to sleep. When you wake up in the morning either your cold will be gone or it will be the least of your worries.

In myn neighbourhoode, ye lawne moweres and ye strynge trymmers ben hummynge alle ye afternoone (atte leaste onne Saturdaye & Sundaye).

Ond ye lilacks begynneth to ope! Ich coulde smelle thir swetenesse whilst watchyng ye televisioune.

PJ: I know the new cathedral, and with the exception of the view from the plaza (reminds me of the view of Hoover Dam from the river below, with inferior water features), love it. Apparently, St. Vib is still officially the patroness of the Archdiocese and her relics were moved from the old cathedral to the new cathedral crypt, but don't get nearly the number of visitors that Gregory Peck's slot downstairs does. The town and cathedral are named for Our Lady, Queen of Angels, though.

Oy hwæt!
Anon!

D . . . dronken
Dronken, dronken, idronken—
. . . dronken is TNH atte wine.'
Hay . . . suster, Walter, Peter,
Ye dronke all depe,
And I shulle eke!
Stondet alle stille—
Stille, stille, stille—
Stondet alle stille—
Stille as any ston;
Trippe a lutel with thy feet,
And let thy body go.

Bodl. 13672

Lois, the lilacs are my cue that summer really means it at last here in Boulder, too. (The first robin generally only means summer's thinking about it.) There's a stretch of Walnut Street where the smell comes out and tackles you as you're bicycling by.

Linkmeister, you're missing an ingredient there, but I fear it might defeat the purpose.

This is the best blog post ever. You are the beautiful people.

Unfortunately I cannot respond in Middle English. I can tell anyone from Germany that my hovercraft is full of eels, but that is neither here nor there.

Drink LOTS of water.

I'm never going to live this down.

What A. J. Luxton said. And steer clear of the acetominophen. That stuff'll melt your liver. (Sez the man who just bought a pile of generic Tylenol III in Canada, and will occasionally slam one with a shot.)

Are your neighbors from the Autonomous Jewish Adminstrative Area, which might just have that weird mix of Azerbaijan and Yiddish you describe above?

BTW, from the fun language/accent front, have you ever seen Daisy Cooks! on PBS? That woman sounds just like my Puerto Rican neighbors who babysat me from 1st through 3rd grade. She even whines cawwfee like a true Noo-Yawker.

Speaking of Vodka ...

Poland has lately joined the EU. Poland has lately elected a barking mad clericalist/conservative government (of the flavour that facilitates gay pride marches by sending in the riot police). Possibly as a side-effect of these two items, the Polish population of Edinburgh has shot up from an estimated 2000 to 20,000 in about twelve months, almost all of them young, urban folks who don't want to stay down on the farm forever. Where they go, so go the Polish delis. With tax-free (because it's within the EU) access to Polish vodka (because Kracow is just £30 away by EasyJet these days). Half of 'em seem to have opened just down the high street from my front door. We're now trying to train them to import the interesting rose petal vodka that's been unobtanium in these parts for about three years.

Can we tempt you guys to come back to Edinburgh some time?

I'm never going to live this down.

Oh, now, there's no need to be melodramatic. Judas said the same thing, you know. He said, "I'm never going to live this down" and look, they finally found his gospel and everything's fine now. Just fine.

Things are always darkest the last two thousand years before the dawn.

Whatever happend to Ye haire of yon hounde?

Jane

Teresa, what's to live down? Most of us can't write like that when we're sober!

(I'd say that none of us can, but this makes me wonder what hidden talents other people have.)

What's to live down? My Middle English there is a mess.

Jane, what happened to the Hair of the Dog is that I'm never drinking anything alcoholic again ever as long as I live.

I may feel different about this later.

Patrick is now telling me about all the things I did when I got home.

What you have to understand is that they kept pouring my glass brimful of vodka, and correcting me when I tried to sip it slowly.

Oh my god. I'm going to have to face them again. I left my hat over there.

Teresa: did they keep the bottles in the freezer? Until the vodka had the consistency of clear vitreous humour running out of an eyeball that's just had the chien andalou treatment? And the vodka did't burn your tongue?

All this reminded me of the sentence long thought to be the oldest existing sentence of Dutch, written by a lovesick monk in the 1100s, working in the Abbey of Rochester:

"Hebban olla uogala nestas uagunnan hinase hic and thu uuat unbidan uui nu"

"Have all birds begun building nests except for you and me, what are we waiting for?"

It's not really the oldest sentence of Dutch still extant, but certainly the most romantic. The best candidate for oldest Dutch sentence is "Maltho thi afrio lito" ("I say, I free you, serf") from the Lex Salica.

Which is still nice.

…and for Whisperado’s next performance, an ol’ sea shanty for raisin’ the anchor:

What would you do with a drunken Hayden?
What would you do with a drunken Hayden?
What would you do with a drunken Hayden?
Earlye in the mornin’!

Have another round with the Azerbaijanis!
Have another round with the Azerbaijanis!
Have another round with the Azerbaijanis!
Earlye in the morning’!

Chorus
Way, hay up she rises,
Way, hay, up she rises,
Way, hay, up she rises,
Earlye in the mornin’!

She speaks Middle English until she’s sober!
Speaks Middle English ‘til she’s sober!
Speaks Middle English ‘til she’s sober!
Earlye in the mornin’!

Chorus
Way, hay up she rises,
Way, hay, up she rises,
Way, hay, up she rises,
Earlye in the mornin’!

Have her edit manuscripts with a big hangover!
Edit manuscripts with a big hangover!
Edit manuscripts with a big hangover!
Earlye in the mornin’!

Chorus
Way, hay up she rises,
Way, hay, up she rises,
Way, hay, up she rises,
Earlye in the mornin’!

…or late in the afternoon. Whenever she finally rises.

-=Jeff=-

Well, this is a bit too dense to be a new Samuel Beckett play.

Speaking of Middle English (and otherwise vastly OT): there was once a book called "Thank You for the Giant Sea Tortoise", a compilation of New York Magazine writing contest entries. It had a magnificent recipe for suckling pig in the style of Geoffrey Chaucer (writing style, not cooking style) that ended:

But whan yow stikk an appel in his teth,
A tinie oon been bet, for, be my feyth,
Un graunt mayhap wol strecche hys comely face,
Till folk been stertled be hys fyrce grymace,
And crie out, "Certes, be my faders wigge,
This nas na verray parfit gentil pigge!"

That in itself is worth the price of the book if you ever run across it, but there's more. Much more.

That thou canst inditen in middele Englisshe after thou hast of the strong wateres drunken, and in such wise as cleerly to be understode bi the learned menne and womenne who gather att thyn blogge, beth a signal sure that thyn commande of the tunge of Chaucer beth not ane messe.

Ich saie this, being well assured that, whyl the middele Englisshe beth not myn native speech, myn name, atte the leest, ben part of it.

What you have to understand is that they kept pouring my glass brimful of vodka, and correcting me when I tried to sip it slowly.

Ah! The Hammered One's complaint!

"I swear you, my love, it was an ambush".

I would say poor Teresa, but I won't. By this time she should be back to thinking that alchool is not a bad thing after all. I, on the other hand, am rather proud of my ability to understand her middle English, although not all of that that was inflicted in the comments. I only ever spoke in German when very, very, very drunk. My progression is English, Spanish, German. The notable fact about German is that I when I started doing this I had never studied it.

Also I now have several very useful ways to fight hangover. I so wish I needed them...

I swear, I swear, it was an ambush.

I am now drinking half-and-half OJ and water, with many ice cubes in it. I haven't kept count, but I think I've fallen asleep, awakened, and fallen asleep again six or seven or eight times since coming home.

That must have been excellent vodka, for in the words of the Archpoet*, "Talis vinum bibeo/Qualis versus faceo."

*I think. Lisa may have a better idea.

I, on the other hand, am rather proud of my ability to understand her middle English, although not all of that that was inflicted in the comments.

I have to say, only on Making Light would I see a reference to a gatling gun, in Welsh, with proper mutations.

I am awestruck.

þe Desputisoun Bitven þe Bodi & þe Soule

Aside from the bizarre way youghs are rendered, quite easy Middle English. Well worth the reading.

At Detox I remind my patients that they, "Shall pysseth awy somme gryete parte of thy water ond thy jus of divers orygyn, so therfor drynk moore myghty draughts than thou mytest thynk ar goode for thee. Ete moste freely of thyngs ond foodes which ar riche in protyns ande Vitimyns of B, moste esspecly Vitamyn B-1, even tyne powders presset inne to smalle pills. A tea myde of ye pressyng of ye wyllow barke shall aide thee mytyly forsoothe."

I know, I know, if Chaucer were truly dead, he'd be rolling in his grave 'bout now... Keep alternating juice and water (heavy on the water), get some B-1 tabs, food as tolerated, heavy on protein...

Oh Mighty Woman :)

Sounds like it was a swell party. They were just being good neighbors. And they clearly like you.

You can get them back, you know. Just serve them large glasses of your lovely wicked citrus mixture. But given the fact that vodka must flow in their veins they may think of it as fruit punch...

Heal well, my friend.

Were Chaucer truly dead, which clearly he is notte, he would be sitting bolt upright in his grave with hand outstretched for the Stoli. Singing also.

(Well) Now, I'm Sick, Sober and Sorry
Broke, disgusted and sad
Sick, Sober and Sorry
But look at the fun that I had.

The jukebox so loudly was playin'
Each couple havin' a ball
But of all of them gals, their sweethearts and pals
I bet I'm the sickest of all.

Charlie: I've just returned from a trip to that aforementioned country of knights-who-wouldn't-join-the-crusades-because-they-might-not-have-their-favourite-booze-in-Jerusalem and crazy politicians known mostly for refusing to stop speaking at their parliament by blocking the lectern like a throng of children blocking the swings at the playground so no one else gets to play. My girlfriend's family is thinking of buying a house they could get for cheap... because the previous owners are moving to England. It's more than symptomatic.

A pre-going out conversation looked like this:

GF: "Who should we call to go out with us tonight?"
Me: "How about Carolina?"
GF: "Oh, she went back to London."
Me: "Gustav, then?"
GF: "I think he's back in Ireland."
ME: "Wojtek?"
GF: "Still in Sheffield."

We met with Ewelina in the end. She told us that she's about done with her BA thesis, and that, once she had her BA, she'd probably be going to England.

It's sad and at the same time perfectly understandable. True, most of these young minds leave because other countries will pay them 10 times what Poland would pay them, and for half the work too (and even factoring in higher living costs in other countries, they'd still earn about three times as much), but the fact that their education still has a distinctive 19th century feel to it (what, you wanna study applied linguistics? Why, that's wonderful! Here's five years' worth of tables listing idioms and other oddities most native speakers will never have heard of--and I'm a German native speaker, and my girlfriend studies German, and I can attest to whatever it is they're studying hasn't been spoken in Germany for a long, long time) and that their politicians are distinctively more ape-shit crazy than is the norm for politicians (yay, let's demand war reparations from Germany with a rhethoric that would have driven a tear to Göbbels's eyes) surely don't encourage young people to stay. Oh, and the job market! The wonderful job market! You have an MA? Great! You're now fully qualified to roller-skate through a supermarket and check on customer complaints.

I've met and spoken to I'd say about twenty people my age (let's diplomatically make that 20-25; I'm at the, eh, end of that range ;P) in the six times that I've been to Poland. Not one of them has said that they're planning to stay in Poland. Everyone wants to get out. It's really sad.

Having said that, make sure you try Żubrówka, the Bison-grass Wódka. It always cracks me up how Wódka is the diminuitive of water. Just a little water ;) I recommend Żubrówka z sokiem jabłkowem (no guarantees for my Polish orthography ;P)--that is, with apple juice. Two parts juice, one part wódka. Lots of fun.

Zubrowka is great. I've got a bottle of it in the freezer right now, nestling next to the bottle of Siwucha. We're out of Krupnik though (and yes, I know you're not supposed to freeze that stuff, you're supposed to set fire to it -- but it tastes really good when frozen, right?).

I started to make a comment about my own few (very few; I learned quickly) overindulgences with alcohol in my younger days, but discretion won out over the thrill of public self-embarassment.

But... the last time I was shopping at AJ's, the local upscale grocery chain, I noticed their liquor department included a brand called Black Death Vodka.

It seemed appropriate to mention here.

Speaking of olden tymes... though it's best to read this when your innards are feeling hale not ale, today's NY Times Magazine has a great piece on Tudor food

And there is son mine, still sleeping off an overindulgence last night in butterscotch schnapps.

Young people these days...

You might be a writer / editor / literary type if...

You speak Middle English only when drunk.

On behalf of my anglosaxon auncestres

Oh dear. In future, perform genealogical research to ascertain that there were some Slavic ancestors performing raids on Anglo-Saxon villages who made their way into the bloodline, before gorging on vodka.

Speaking of which, if anyone ever gets a line on Tarkhuna vodka, you know where to post about it.

Conversation which just transpired in my household:

Me: "Hey Keith, did you see Making Light today?"
Keith: "No, why?"
Me: "Teresa got drunk and posted in Middle English."

Of Silly Things To Do When Drunk, this is one of the best.

(This Keith != Keith Kisser, although his last name is startlingly similar.)

Ye hundes haire doth verily werke, wherefore thy bodie laboreth to sunder into partes ye ethanolle therein contain'd, and therefore passeth o'er ye al-coholles whiche greater lengthes of chaine do have, ye brokene partes of whiche longere chaines be toksicke, and do mayke thee foulle ille.

OK, not ME but forsoothly. I need to read more Chaucer.

I used to speak with an Irish brogue when drunk, but only if I were drunk on Guinness. OTOH that was my drink of choice, and one of only two things I still miss (the other being good red wine).

I am mightily impressed. Not just that Teresa speaks in Middle English when thoroughly drunk, but that she managed to type coherently and post it. Patrick is a lucky man.

Ich haue traunslated an epigram by Seynte Dorothee of Manhatten to honour thy fyne writynge of thy hangouer and the causes of yt:

The flawe yn paganisme

Drinken, syngen wyth fayre steven,
Loven til the lark crith 'hoo,'
For a-morwe shul we sterven:
But -alas!- we neuir do.

Wyht grete admiracioun

Le Vostre Servaunt

GC

Okay, I couldn't read through all the posts to see if someone covered this already - but someone mentioned Tylenol?

NO! IXS-NAY ON THE ILENOL-TAY!

I'm sorry for the shouting, but Tylenol + booze == ReallyBadIdea, unless you like the idea of winding up on a waiting list for a new liver.

Seriously.

The risk is most pronounced for alcoholics, but if you're a regular consumer of alcohol (even of moderate quantities), the suggested dose of Tylenol can do your liver in.

For the person who rarely drinks, Tylenol can still be a problem a.) if they have an underlying condition that renders their liver more fragile (for lack of a better term) and it can't handle the load of both Tylenol and the alcohol, b.) they've been taking cold remedies (because so many of them contain acetominophen (sp?)) and so they've taken far more Tylenol than they realize, c.) they take too much by accident because the alcohol impairs their judgement.

I can't say this strongly enough: never, ever, ever, EVER mix Tylenol & alcohol.

Okay, having read thru, I see that someone else did mention it... Again, my apologies for raising my voice, but death by Tylenol is an ugly thing - and far more common that most people realize.

That said - it sounds like a most excellent evening (if a somewhat less than optimal morning).

Xopher, my husband speaks in French when he drinks red wine. Somehow, his drunken French is always better than his sober French... although admittedly his improvement could be all in the ears of the listener, since I'm usually drinking the wine with him.

Teresa, you should rent yourself out to college students taking Middle English. So long as they provide the alcohol, they get free conversational Middle English lessons!

Teresa, Rebecca sends condolences to her Former Foot, and is very sorry that you are feeling ill.

Water, water, water. Bs and Cs. Juice if tolerated. And by all means, invite your charming neighbors over for a little of that gorgeous citrus stuff (the hangover from which would be significant, given the sugar content!)

A drinke there bee, triple sec, madde moste cunningly to lie ypon þe tounge an it wyre of very noranges, though there bee no kinde of oranges within hym.

If this drinke you use, in plyce of clean wateres, to make agin the juice of þe norange that were ys and þick, oft enow it tastes hym as though hyt where of oranges freshly squozen, withoughten any part of þe strone drinke therinit.

No goode dost come of thyse.

Charles Sheffield, of blessed memory, when drunk could recite reams of poetry he'd read as a lad in British schools. But not a word remembered when sober. It was quite a party trick.

Jane

If it was just Ari and Miri there, they were probably exceptionally glad to see you because you can't drink vodka with just two people; there always has to be a third. Likewise, a vodka bottle opened is a vodka bottle finished; caps are to be thrown away. Bread is the customary accompaniment. They've apparently already made their views on sipping clear.

None of that helps us discern the neighbors' origins, because the customs are common to pretty much the whole post-Soviet space. Still, if you can lay your hands on any Russian Standard (Russki Standart), that's basically the best vodka coming out of Russia right now, there's no telling what secrets and culinary delights the neighbors might divulge.

Likewise, a vodka bottle opened is a vodka bottle finished; caps are to be thrown away.

I've read that this custom originated because in the USSR, vodka bottles had paper (cardboard?) caps. Of course, they may have had those because of the custom; it's hard to tell.

The maiden is not dead, but sleepeth.

I am reminded of a visit we made to the National Zoo long ago, and there encountered a cage containing what appeared to be a medium-sized, spiky, lying-on-its-back-dead marsupial. Closer inspection revealed a small sign posted inside the cage: "The echidna is not dead. It is only sleeping."

Perhaps it too had been indulging in the waters of the Rus.

Oh, my. I rarely indulge to the point of hangover any more, but my quickest recovery involved breakfasting on a can of spicy V-8 annd a couple of ibuprofen, followed by a cool shower, the better part of a quart of cold water, and a brisk walk of several blocks to attend Mass. This was at Pennsic, so I didn't have any choice on the shower temperature (was lucky my solar bag had warmed up to "cool") or means of transport to Mass. I sure felt better in less time than I'd had any expectation of on awaking.

I dimly recall attempting Tuvan throat singing while drunk.

11 years ago the office I worked in hosted a group of Belarussians. They came to Wa state to learn about the capitalist society and we were their hosts. I remember a visit to Costco, where surrounded by a warehouse full of goods, they asked the Costco representative what they did when someone bought all the goods up.

But I digress. This group brought with them suitcases full of vodka which they shared with all who entertained them. They also brought in their suitcases bacon lard (which caused the police dogs at the airport to go absolutely wild) because it was their belief that if they ate the bacon lard first, they could drink as much vodka as they needed to w/o ill effect. Must have worked, b/c while the rest of us were spinning after a few snifters, they were going til very late in the evening. The singing was the best.

Oh, and may I reommend this piece from daily kos on the Albigensian crusades?

Albigensian Crusades.

re the bacon lard prevention method. I've seen this also (in fiction, at least) as a large quantity of real butter, the theory being given as the fat would coat the inside of the stomach. I've never tried it; I don't generally drink that much (one bottle of beer, one glass of wine, one shot of hard stuff).

re the results of too much alcohol (or too little non-alcohol): minimal amounts used of whatever pain reliever you prefer. Two while the headache is small. Once the headache goes critical, nothing until the system has settled again, however long that takes (not usually long, fortunately). Go to bed and sleep. Wake up and take the pain reliever of choice; go back to sleep. Maybe repeat in the morning, if it's still trying to get you. Sleep works very well as a remedy.

hrc, I had a similar experience on Kwajalein when the Royal Aussie AF flew in on their way to the West Coast. Thirty of them brought two pallets of Castleman's XXXX which they liberally shared with those of us they found in the local alfresco bar. They tried the tipple the locals drank first (the first round was about 4 cases of Bud) and pronounced it awful. Compared to the buzz one gets from 4X, they were right.

As a church historian who has done work on the Cathars, I can tell you that the linked narrative seriously understates the political motivations behind the Albigensian Crusade and seriously overstates the wonderfulness of the Cathars. In addition, all the "facts" that he states (excepting Papal bulls and other public documents) have been questioned, up to and including the existance of the Cathars themselves.

I appreciate that he's trying to make a point, and not writing for a specialized audience. However, the Cathars are the trendy heretics of the moment - Southern France is overrun with "Cathar tours," the highways are marked as Cathar routes, there are groups of neo-Cathars around the world (including one called the Gaythars); in short, everyone who wants to make a point about their dissatisfaction with contemporary Christianity is co-opting the Cathars to do it. Take almost all of the result with copious amounts of salt.

Jane my dear, Charles remembered the poetry at all times; he just had inhibitions against revealing his eidetic memory when he was sober. He was scary sometimes.

Teresa, I hope you're feeling better by now!

the Cathars are the trendy heretics of the moment

Sort of like The Gospel of Judas is the trendy gospel of the moment?

Well, whether there were "really any Cathars," there definitely was an Albigensian Crusade in which a bunch of people got killed for being . . . whatever it was they were.

The Gospel of Judas has somewhat less historical evidence connecting it to, well, anything.

On the other monstrance, if your point was that the Albigensian Heresy (or more accurately, popcult versions thereof) chelates with the zeitgeist, and so does the Original Gangsta Judas of the putative Gospel, yeah, I can follow that.

Linkmeister, that would be the Castlemaine Brewery's XXXX, always called "Fourex", because it's twice as effective as Durex. It's a Queensland brew, and in my opinion the animal died of diabetes. Cascade or Cooper's Draught for me, while you're up.

re: fat as an ethanol retardant - yup, it works - but for varying values of 'works'. Think of it like flame retardant: if you think you're fireproof because you're wearing flame retardant underoos instead of full Nomex or those shiny suits the airport firefighters wear, you're going to be in a world of hurt.

The same more or less holds true for consuming high-fat foods prior to drinking. It'll slow down the rate of absorbtion, but all that alcohol has to enter your bloodstream sooner or later. All you've done is increase the value of 'later'.

(My wife does alcohol research...)

Dave L, forgive my misspelling of the name. After two cans I couldn't recognize anything beyond the color. I had those at the beach at about 1:00pm, and I'll swear that I still had a buzz while at work 10 hours later.

Well, that's Aussie lager for you. You can't drink it like Bud. It's not that I have anything against Bud, you understand. It's never done anything to me, after all. In fact, I should feel far more hostile towards Australian beer, which has.

Yeah, other than the odd Fosters or Steinlager here or there I've felt safer with known beer, at least if I was going someplace after consumption. Strong doesn't do it justice.

"I've read that this custom originated because in the USSR, vodka bottles had paper (cardboard?) caps. Of course, they may have had those because of the custom; it's hard to tell."

When I visited the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics during its final years, vodka bottles were capped with a non-recloseable foil (or perhaps foil-coated cardboard) cap. So I can confirm that bit.

Overall standards of food packaging were *extremely* low and primitive, so I'd vote for the packaging giving rise to the custom rather than vice versa. Eggs were sold loose (dump 'em carefully in whatever you got) and cheese in rough hunks wrapped in paper after you selected one. Milk was in fragile waxed cardboard. Beer was commonly sold from a 200 gallon tank into whatever container you brought; I saw guys on the street buying and drinking out of gallon glass pickle jars. Cooking oil was often in a plastic bottle sealed at the top by twisting the neck while hot -- cut off the melted twist to open, and stuff a rag in the hole to close. Thusly.

I'm in the camp who doesn't get a hangover from Stoli drunk straight up in the Russian fashion; I like to drink water before unconsciousness claims me to avoid morning dehydration, but the dreaded pounding head and nausea does not visit, pretty much without regard to volumes consumed. Here's hoping Teresa, properly fortified with liquids, had a similar experience.

Beth--I believe you about Charles, but am only quoting him. He told David and me (and his agent Eleanor Wood) about his poetic recall as we all sat in a pub drinking at the Brighton World Con instead of going to the Hugos. (None of us was nominated anyway.) Warned us in fact that the drunker he got, the more poetry he would recite.

And he did.

He and David, by the way, were old colleagues and had worked together at some computer body shop or other in the '60s!

A toast to old friends, now gone.

Jane

Briefly re: hangovers (wearing the nursie hat for a moment):

As far as I can tell, there are no "cures", only palliatives. That said, hair-of-ye-dog makes sense when you consider that what the body is going through after the fact is a drug withdrawal. When I was still working at Payne Whitney, a staged withdrawal with administration of gradually decreased amounts of alcohol was de rigueur. (Though there were clients we would have loved to withdraw cold turkey, ethics forbade. Mutter.)(Now wondering if I spelled "rigueur" right.)

Re the pre-drinking prep: Butter or other high-fat things ingested an hour or so previous to the event do work somewhat, as the villi in the upper gut have a specific order in which they handle input. Normally alcohol would be metabolized first...but you can slow down this process a whole lot by taking up all the available receptor sites with fat molecules. The alcohol then has to wait in line. NB that this will not protect you against really prolonged drinking and its aftereffects. Also, it helps to eat while drinking. Bread is useful, but more useful as a way to get some more butter down you.

Agreeing also with all above who said NONONONONO to acetaminophen / Tylenol & alcohol. Ever so NOT. Bad liver toxicity.

Hey, Jane -- (hugs)(x2)

As a not-quite-serious thought experiment, what effect would rum have on Talk-Like-A-Pirate Day?

Or a good supply of Scotch on Burns Night?

The Russians seem to have a large number of celebratory customs which make use of vodka. For instance, a newly promoted military officer having his new rank insignia at the bottom of a brim-full glass of vodka, and having to drink the whole lot in one go, without spilling any.

I don't think that would be viable for Hugo Awards, it would have to be a very large glass, with languag effects approaching Proto-Indo-European.

J. M. Ford; yes, that was indeed my point, albeit put with more pizzaz, or do I mean panache...

(Stop that at once...!)

It always cracks me up how Wódka is the diminuitive of water. Just a little water ;)

I always thought that the use of the diminutive was as a term of endearment - as we might say in English, "nice water" or "cute little water". And it does look like water.

Dave, do they ever have Burns' Nights without a good supply of Scotch?

It seems to me that Teresa may wish to share not her citrus drink with her neighbors, but her pepper oils.

Epacris --

If you have fallen into the clutches of a particular flavour of purist, you had better hope so. ('Scotch' being, in that lexicon, the blended stuff; the other, single malt, stuff, is whiskey. (Sometimes without the e.))

If all they've got to drink on Burns night is blended, they'll be sullen and morose.

My dear hostess, whom I hope is feeling much better today,

What's to live down? My Middle English there is a mess.

The fact that while intoxicated you can slip into Middle English and type it is rather astonishing.

I am most impressed at your...skill.

Laur[ence]: 'whiskey' means water too. It's an Anglicized spelling of 'uisge', from the phrase 'uisge a bagh' (or 'uisge bagh' or 'uisge beatha' depending on which Gaelic you speak), meaning 'water of life'. This name is also used for other distilled beverages, in various languages (like Aqua Vitae/Akvavit...anybody know some more?).

Whether the Russian version was once called 'vodka zhizna' is something I don't know. Web research suggests not; 'dear little water' is probably what is meant...though usually that form of the diminutive is pejorative—'Mishenka' means 'dear Mikey', while 'Mishka' means 'bad Mikey'. 'Vodenka' is Just Wrong though. And maybe they curse it the next day!

chelates with the zeitgeist

Lovely.

Xopher - I'd seen the phrase "uisge a bagh" before, and I knew it meant "water of life," and had been Anglicized as "whiskey," but it never occurred to me that, therefore, "whiskey" means "water." Wow.

(And about my name, spelled Laur[ence] - it used to be Laura. But now that I see somebody else spelling it with the brackets, it looks silly. So, no more brackets.)

Xopher: "Naughty water"?

And just last night I was watching the Bill Bailey standup show 'Bewilderness' on DVD. The last item is Bill telling a fantastic pub shaggy dog story in the vein of Chaucer, complete with middle english accent. Well worth seeing.

I have been trying to learn Italian. This thread has reminded me that the only Finnish I managed to pronounce correctly and retain involved partaking of the Koskenkorva infused with turkinpippuri candy. Koskenkorva is not vodka, I'm told, but I don't know what makes it not vodka - I couldn't tell the difference, and the turkinpippuri (turkish pepper candy) didn't help. The Finnish national who introduced me to it has now passed on and I cannot ask her.

Now that it is a season indistinguishable from summer here, perhaps I should have a bottle of Prosecco with my next Learn Italian iPod session.

Metal Fatigue: Excellent. Good gloss. I'd say so, yes.

mk -- Now that it is a season indistinguishable from summer here, perhaps I should have a bottle of Prosecco with my next Learn Italian iPod session.

Now there's a thought. In my case, apply it to the review/relearn process. (Of course, I've been known to drink prosecco in the dead of winter.)

This name is also used for other distilled beverages, in various languages (like Aqua Vitae/Akvavit...anybody know some more?).

Before-my-time Britsh novels sometimes refer to "eau de vie"; I'm not sure whether that's just an affectation (like passages of Sayers or D'Oyly Carte's family speaking French at home) or what the French also call it (at least as a generic). Dutch, as one might guess, describes less lyrically but more accurately; "brandy" comes from (e.g.) brandewijn, literally "burned wine".

CHip: I believe that's my cue. "Eau-de-vie" is the generic French word for "brandy."

"Brandy," on the other hand, is a corruption of the original "baran-duin," as any denizen of Making Light ought to know.

I'm goin' back to the selo
Where my insides, my insides ain't abused
I can't take any more vodenka
Ya bolyen from my fur hat to my shoes

Oh, is that the time?

I have a friend who, when drunk, develops a lovely Irish brogue; and when further drunk, she lapses into Gaelic. Of course, she is actually Irish, but you'd never know it when she's sober.

Echidnas, by the way, are actually monotremes, not marsupials — they lay eggs like platypodes.

"Platypodes."

So that's what the plural of "platypus" is. How lovely. I'll have to try and bring platypodes up in casual conversation some time.

Of course!

octopus::octopodes ( lost a bet on that once. I called the library reference desk, who said "Octopusses or octopi." The other guy said "Ask them to check the OED.")
platypus::platypodes

Ha!

In general, as far as recent events: The best hangover cure I know is "be 18, and in excellent shape." At least, it used to work for me.

Sandy B: In general, as far as recent events: The best hangover cure I know is "be 18, and in excellent shape." At least, it used to work for me.

The worst hangover I ever had (no details, either of the affliction itself, or of the events leading up to it, will be disclosed) was when I was 19. I've actually gotten better about such things since. Perhaps due to having been given advice similar to that in this thread.

All my mates are deft hands with the drink;
Barely sipped, my cup's filled to the brink.
So when asked, with a frown,
Just how many I've downed,
I can honestly say: "One, I think."

I just ran across a relevant portion of an interview from Modern Drunkard Magazine (remember, they key to sucess is to find your niche market) with "F. Scott Robert", which is the pseudonym of the author of a, well, unvarnished look at life in Antarctica, Big Dead Place.

Modern Drunkard (MDM): ... I’ve read that hangovers are especially brutal down there.

F. Scott Robert (FSR): Just so. Barometrically, we are at an altitude of approximately 10,000 feet and temperately Antarctica is classified as a desert. It’s very high and very dry, so while one’s terrible thirst drives one to the conclusion that half of each beer is being lost to evaporation before it can be consumed, this is not really the case, thus two beers are conscripted where one might suffice. In addition, after one drinks two times as much as necessary to feel pleasant and warm in one’s otherwise empty bed, the dry air suddenly attacks in the night and robs one of all moisture whatsoever. The victim, now with a nose full of dangerous and dagger-like boogers, wakes the next morning to suspect that the room has been humidified by one’s own saliva.

MDM: Do you possess the secret of an especially effective hangover cure?

FSR: Though it takes time to work, I have always found suffering to be a sure remedy.

Koskenkorva is made from potatoes. As are many vodkas. I don't know what Kossu would be, if not vodka. Probably just "viina", then.

And there's no pepper in turkinpippuri, but ammonium chloride. Mm-hmm, sweet ammonium chloride...

Bibiana is the patron saint of drinking? Is that an intentional pun on the part of those who assign patron saints to various things?

Somehow I missed this thread when it happened.

Xopher: Vodka zhizna would be vodka zhizni (genitive life modifies nominitive water... had to replay it a few times in my mouth to be sure). One might say, vdodka zhiznaya but that would be, "living water," which has a certain ring to it.

It is, however, an endearment, as otherwise speculated.

Not that many vodkas are made from grain, the potato varieties are rare (the only one I know of as being readily available is the Polish, Monopolowa).

I've always preferred "'Sumer is icumen in, lewdly singe coucou', or something like that." Flanders and Swann, if my memory serves.

PJ Evans @ 29

Someone may have posted this upthread, but if not, the name is iÅŸkembe. (pr: eeshkembe - which may also be the noise one makes when presented with it)/climbs out of enormous potential time sink>

Even better, it's a broken link in that spam.

On the other hand, it did give me an excuse to revisit this thread.

I miss this stuff :-)

Note to self, go read some Chaucer until he maketh sense.