Joeblade

Hiccups

It is perhaps a reflection of my personality that I can go out for a night in London with Decline & Fall and Vikki, and yet return to write an article on hiccuping. The opportunity for new anecdotes should have been great, and it no doubt was, but nevertheless, this is where we are.

I was loathe to write such an article, because as conversational gambits go I feel a discussion of hiccuping is up there with “Hey, do you remember Grange Hill?” and “So, what do you do?” but it’s on my mind right now and if it’s on my mind, it tends to be on the website as well, Joeblade being little more than a receptacle for the overflow these days.

Hiccuping is on my mind because I don’t understand the concept. That is to say, while I understand the technical explanation behind the whole hiccuping process — the whole irritated diaphragm issue — I don’t understand their existence, their raison d’être. Their presence is nothing less than proof that the human body evolved from slime and was not designed by some bearded Darth Vader-type figure in the sky, proof that goes neatly alongside blushing, involuntary erections while travelling on public transport and needing to go to the toilet when you’re only five minutes into that all-important job interview.

I never get hiccups when I’m alone, only in public, which leads me to believe that they have some sort of Machiavellen instict that science has been so far unable to identify. Not only that, I only get them when I’m out in a pub or bar, and then only when I’m drinking (exhaustive research indicates that what I’m drinking has no bearing on the presence of hiccups — tea, coffee, wine, spirits, beer, it doesn’t appear to matter). So I’m there, surrounded by people, having a good time, possibly amusing the crowds with an anecdote or two, and then suddenly, without warning, AARP!

AARP! Ooh, excuse me. AARP! Oh, Jesus. AARP! I’m sorry. AARP!

I don’t fuck around when I have hiccups, so we’re not talking about delicate little lady hiccups, we’re talking about BARKING LIKE A GODDAMN SEAL. Instantly, I’m a social leper, sat quietly in the corner looking mildly constipated as I hold my breath for the tenth time to try and get rid of them. Once I’ve had them, that’s the evening written off — even when I’m rid of them, I know it’s only a matter of time before they return for another go. It’s not just that it prevents me from finishing a sentence that bothers me — it’s the abject physical pain as well. Hiccups hurt! These little bastards can lift me off my feet if I’m not careful, and to the casual passer-by it’s as if I’m suffering from Tourette Syndrome — AARP! Fucksake. AARP! Fuck! AARP! Jesus fucking Christ! AARP! Fucking hell!

It’s all very amusing for the people surrounding you, of course, though some people do have the decency to not laugh at me when they realise how much it’s hurting, having my whole chest explode every 30 seconds. And (as with insomnia and travel sickness) everybody has a cure. Having a big fright, holding your breath, dropping coins or keys down your back, drinking water backwards (which I always assumed meant ‘vomiting some water’ — never quite understood that one), and so on. My own personal cure is to lie absolutely flat on my back with nothing supporting my head, but when you find yourself in the middle of a crowded London wine bar, the opportunities to have a bit of a lie down are fairly limited. Hell, finding a seat is hard enough.

People give you such funny looks as well, as if they’ve never seen anybody hiccuping in public before — like I’m doing something disgustingly unnatural like grooming someone for nits, or breast-feeding. Have these people never hiccuped before? Do they even breathe? I suspect not, the dead-eyed nobodies. It’s Soylent Green waiting to happen, I swear.

Thankfully, the hiccuping doesn’t happen every time I go out. If anything, it’s actually quite a rare occurance, but when it hits, by God, it hits. On Saturday night, I think the first bout began at about 19:30, and then they came and went until around 02:00. It got me some space on the train home, admittedly — people seemed to be a little wary of sitting near someone who barked and retched every other moment, so it’s a trick I’ll remember for later.

According to Guinness World Records, the longest ever recorded hiccup fit was by Charles Osborne from Iowa who hiccupped for 68 years, from 1922 until 1990. How he coped, I have no idea.

By Paul Haine, in