Is it really time to say goodbye to hangovers?

·5-min read
 (Jack Nicholson by Willy Rizzo, Saint-Tropez - 1981.jpg)
(Jack Nicholson by Willy Rizzo, Saint-Tropez - 1981.jpg)


It’ll stop you getting drunk, that’s how it works, people told me. That didn’t sound good. It can be nice to get shit-faced sometimes, and after a hectic day, some friends and I were in the mood. I popped the pills (never a wholesome-sounding phrase) and hoped I’d still get sozzled. I needn’t have worried: by 9.30pm pronouncing simple words like ‘Eilish’ was beyond me. Back at home, to test the pill properly, I even forced down a whisky before bed. The 7am alarm buzzed; ‘bollocks, my head, it hasn’t worked,’I thought. But… 10 minutes later I felt fine. And that’s how it remained all day. I was worried the hangover wolf would smash down my door and start drilling a hole in my head; but no, he just lingered outside, not bothering me. Am I sold? For the occasional session with no payback, you bet. Nick Howells


A cold bottle of cava has become a Friday date night tradition for my partner and me, but with the arrival of hot summer nights and these pills to put through their paces… inevitably we carried on. A Portuguese beer and a bottle of white with dinner at Casa do Frango, tucked in behind Borough Market. A tinny and a half of Co-op G&T for the 20-minute walk there. A potent Espresso Martini on the house to make up for the spotty service. Followed by a nightcap (okay two) at my trusty Kennington local. I’ve been down this road before and it should have been a recipe for a nauseous Saturday tinged with regret, but at 7.30am I stirred, headache-free, and polished off the pint of water by the bed without the usual paracetamol. After another couple of hours’ sleep I got up still with a clear-ish head, no pain or spins.I can’t prove it was these pills that saved my Saturday; I can’t prove it wasn’t. But whileI didn’t feel very rested, I also didn’t feel ill and that’s good enough for me. Matt Hryciw


Coming to you live from the toilets of Dalston Superstore at approximately 2am. It’s Saturday night, it’s hot, it’s sticky, it’s the Trans Pride afterparty. I took my hangover pill at 3pm this afternoon and was less concerned about what’s in it, and more concerned about whether or not it would prevent me from getting suitably trashed. As I balance my head against the toilet cubicle walls and the club spins around me, I can confirm, this is not the case. Update: coming to you from my (promise) bed, 11am Sunday morning. I should be hanging. After not enough food, 12 hours of drinking, 28-degree heat, a parade through central and bumping into a total of four exes at Superstore,I should be paying the price right now. Apart from feeling ravenous and a little foggy, generally… I feel suspiciously good. Maybe this pill does work, or, quite possibly, I’m simply still pissed. Isobel Van Dyke


Full-bodied throbbing and dread on the Central line, trudging into the office after flowing cocktails and (it has been known) a massive club night is one of my more familiar states. The prospect of defeating it with a pill? Pipe dream, surely. I washed mine down with a few tins of vodka cranberry (you are meant to take them two hours before, but I started steady) before finding myself at a free bar for a 10 till 3 bender. Let’s go! (In the name of research, naturally.) I sampled the drinks — double tequila Palomas and vodka Diet Cokes; Aperol Spritz and Margaritas — and had actually forgotten I had taken the pills (um, research), when my friend remarked on his ‘waved’ state. I wasn’t? More! By 1.30am, with no less than 15 double shots swimming around, I had just about hit inebriated dancing state. Bed by 4am, up at 1pm and… no hangover. Lingering of tiredness, yes, but the painful yolk swelling in your brain until you pop it? Not today. The qualm: I had to drink more to feel less. Fine when the bar’s free. Joe Bromley


As someone whose job it is to eat and drink as much as humanly possible, I was — to say the least — excited about a mysterious miracle pill that would apparently cure me of my perpetual hangover. While I popped them on the train on my way to a food festival in giddy, smug delight, my sister eyed me with a mix of envy and scepticism. ‘Surely they can’t work?’ she quipped. What followed that evening — three glasses of champagne, a whisky cocktail, a three-course wine pairing, a vodka Martini and an immeasurable amount of mezcal — proved several things: no, these pills would not prevent the consequences (headache, aversion to sunlight, shame, etc) of a string of bad decisions; that the only way to really, truly, get over a hangover is with another drink; and that the editor of ES Magazine, Ben Cobb, was right when he said, ‘Hangovers are good, you learn from them.’ What did I learn? Never let a chef free-pour mezcal directly into your mouth. Joanna Taylor

£30 for 30 capsules (

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