When I heard last week that Martin Amis had popped his clogs, it was sad but not shocking news. Candle, blowtorch, both ends etc.
In the days that followed, miles and miles of glowing column inches were bashed out about the man and his work.
All of them celebrated his rapier wit and effortless prose before cavorting vicariously through his legendary fondness for drinking, smoking and horizontal folk-dancing.
Most of the pieces I read also touched on his ‘complex’ relationship with his father Kingsley Amis, the preeminent and permanently pissed raspberry-blower of his generation.
I mention all this as an excuse to share my favourite piece of Kingsley’s writing. It comes from his 1954 novel, Lucky Jim.
Has there ever been a more evocative description of a hangover? No. No, there hasn’t.