Thanks to Jameel for bringing this to my attention. I can only hope Tim's housewarming (that I regretfully cannot attend) leaves him this way.

The finest description of a hangover in English literature is accredited
to Kingsley Amis' wonderful campus novel Lucky Jim:

"He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab
on the tarry shingle of the morning. The light did him harm, but not so
much as looking at things did: he resolved, having done it once, never to
move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene
before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by
some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the
night, too, he'd somehow been on a cross-country run and then been
expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad."