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My hiccup runneth over

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    My hiccup runneth over

    A mate of mine had congenital hiccups. Seriously. He was born with them, lived with them, and couldn’t get rid of them no matter how many specialists he saw, how many remedies he tried, and how hard we hit him in the chest. Nothing could shake them.

    In the end it got too much for him. They caused him to drop out of uni, he couldn’t sleep properly, and he couldn’t hold down a job. He’d often say to me, “Chris *hic* these fuc*hic*king hiccups are ruining my *hic* fucking life *hic*.”

    It was a shame. He was a bright, funny lad, and if it hadn’t been for his hyper-sensitive diaphragm, I’m sure he could have gone on and had a miserable, meaningless life of mediocrity like the rest of us.

    But he didn’t. One day I came home and found him dead on the floor of my lounge, beside him an empty bottle of vodka, and an empty bottle of pills.

    “NO!” I screamed. “NO HICCUPING DAVE. WHY DID YOU HAVE TO DO THIS?” I ran up to him and shook his limp, lifeless body. “HICCUPING DAVE. YOU STUPID BASTARD. YOU STUPID, STUPID BASTARD. WHY? WHY HICCUPING DAVE? WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS? I’D BEEN SAVING THAT BOTTLE OF VODKA FOR GEMMA’S HOUSE PARTY NEXT WEEK.”

    OK, so I made all that up. But so fucking what? It’s what I do. But I don’t want the fact I’m an attention seeking liar to detract from the awfulness of hiccups. They are not a subject for jokes. They are serious. And a real fucking pain.

    A few weeks ago I had a terrible dose of them after a night on the ale. I was walking from central London down to Charing Cross to get my train home, but these fucking hiccups wouldn’t leave me be. They were relentless. And having suffered the shock of losing a made-up friend to hiccups in the past, I knew I couldn’t risk letting these little fuckers settle in for any period of time.

    Whilst walking, I’d been holding my breath for longer than David Blaine, and my lips were turning a shade of liver that was worrying me. Just as I was about to pass out, I passed the Everwell Chinese Medicine Centre on Charing Cross Road. They could, they claimed, cure any ailment. Which was superb, just so long as they could cure the ailment I had, not one I didn’t have.

    I walked in and explained the situation to the man. It took a long time to convey the problem. Partially because I had hiccups, but also because I was drunk, and I’m a fat tongued, inarticulate idiot. Finally the fella got the gist of it, told me to sit down, and wandered off to the back of the shop. He reappeared moments later holding a small white tablet, and a plastic cup of water.

    “Here. Take.” he said with a directness and a clarity that made it impossible for me to fuck up. I took the tablet, and popped it in my mouth, washing it down with the water. “Here is your bill.”

    I took the piece of paper and unfolded it. I read it. It said £200. I turned the bill over, turned it back, again, and re-read it. It still said £200.

    “TWO HUNDRED POUNDS?!” I shrieked in a voice so high pitch we both winced. “TWOHUNDREDFUCKINGPOUNDS?! For what? A little tablet? A shitty little white tablet? And some water? What was it: A real pearl and a chalice of unicorn tears? One of God’s teeth washed down by the authentic piss of Christ? A tiny little universe in the shape of an aspirin, and a cup of, of, of….” I was running out of steam, and was hoping for the man to butt in and tell me to shut the fuck up. But he kept schtum. I felt the need to fill the silence.

    “You pirate. You thief. You miserable bandit. You robbing, conniving, little, shit. How fucking dare you? How dare you charge me £200 for that shitty little tablet and shitty little cup of water?”

    The man started laughing. “HAHAHAHAHA!” he boomed as he snatched the bill out of my hand, crumpled it in to a little ball and threw it on the floor. “HAHAHAHAHA. Stupid boy. STUPID BOY! HAHAHAHAHA. Where are your hiccups? They’ve gone! HAHAHAHAHA. Now get out of my shop.”

    “You mean…?” I asked meekly. The pill had been a placebo. Probably just an aspirin, or a vitamin tablet or something. It certainly didn’t cure hiccups, and it definitely didn’t cost £200.

    “YES! HAHAHAHAHAHA! Best thing for hiccups, a big shock. Now, get out of my shop, stupid boy.”

    #2
    My hiccup runneth over

    Which reminds me, your Wrong Terrence blog has not been updated in a while.

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      #3
      My hiccup runneth over

      It got updated last night, just before I posted this.

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        #4
        My hiccup runneth over

        A as ever, EIM.

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          #5
          My hiccup runneth over

          World hiccups record, 68 years

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