D's room-mate's foot is blue, they all tried to convince the hotdog cart guy to make them garlic cheese chips and no one's entirely sure what happened last night...

Gin has been lying face down on the ground for several hours now and we’re starting to worry. Fun reckons he’s fine.

“He had a brief hiccough of consciousness around half ten, and he told me his foot was blue, which it is. So he’s still sentient.”

This raises the question as to why Gin’s foot is blue, which it is, undeniably. Doodoo reckons trench-foot. I find his shoes under the bed while I’m looking for socks later on and see that it’s actually the dye from his shoes that has stained his foot and my fucking socks. I’ve never known anyone to be able to sleep facedown on the ground for so long. He eventually resurfaces.

“D, my foot is blue. And my nose hurts. And I think I have a collapsed lung.”

I doubt none of this.

We’re all very hungover. Last night was Brooklyn Pride and Gin worked a fifteen hour shift in a bar on 5th Avenue, the main drag for the parade. The rest of us kept him drunken company. We’re now in various stages of inebriation and hungover-ness.

I’m wearing house pants with reindeers on them and a sheep-lined jacket with a scarf and a beanie. I look like one of those newly freed hostages you see arrive at airbases on the news. I’m so cold. Fun is on the couch next to me, he looks the way charity shops smell.

The Mitty is last to come back to life. His eyes are red, like he tried to take mascara off with paint-stripper. His breath smells like he’s been drinking it. He warns us against the toilet, which he has eviscerated with a hangover poo, or what he likes to call a “bar stool”.

We all have post-night out pineapple hair.

DooDoo didn’t come out as he had work this morning and so comes downstairs to the last scene of Hamlet.

“DooDoo, I think I’m dying…”

“D’ya reckon it was something you drank?

“No, I reckon it was something I fucking heard, what do you think?”

“Pleasant.”

“It’s the poison talking…”

Pride was great craic. We were drinking in a bar owned by a Wexford woman in Park Slope. The place was packed and Gin was horsing out the drink while the three of us (and about two hundred lesbians) horsed it down.

There were a few J1ers out and about. Whenever I meet another J1er and I tell them I’m actually an American citizen I get the same reaction. They call me a prick and then look off into the middle distance stoically. I always think they’re weighing up whether or not they’d marry me for a green card.

We tried to make friends but it’s hard to when The Mitty’s go-to response to what’s your name is “I am the flash, of hawk-eye in the sun! Who the fuck are you?” We see one obvious J1er, fresh off the boat, wandering around the crowd still with his bags. We ask him if he’s alright. He looks at us doe-and bleary-eyed. “I started drinking G&Ts at GMT and now I seem to have gone back in time and I don’t know if that means that I’m sober now or…” The sentence drifted off, as did he. We went back to the pub.

Whenever I’m heavily refreshed and someone mentions Wexford, I usually become forcefully patriotic and start screaming “First to Fight!” Vague memories of that. Also of The Mitty sitting in a dentist’s chair that they have in the bar, arguing with the Fates about why he shouldn’t have lost his wallet. Fun somehow got into a conversation with a woman about the morning-after pill.

“It’s a real lifesaver. But ironically, it’s actually a life-killer.”

“Ok Fun, time to go home.”

America doesn’t do drunk food the way we do in Ireland. Taco chips at 4am are for your soul as much as for your stomach. We spent about fifteen minutes trying to figure out if a guy with a hotdog cart could make us a garlic cheese chip. He didn’t know what we were talking about and our description of it being “like a lasagne for drunk people” apparently wasn’t clear enough. In the end we got kebabs. I asked him what the vegetarian option was, out of sheer devilment, and he told me there were two. Chicken or fuck off.

We lose The Mitty somewhere along the way and I get a text off him at about 5 in the morning. “Wring train, sorry, hope you can underdance, home soon.” I suppose the sentiment was nice. We all get home eventually, Gin around dawn. He falls asleep on the ground just next to his bed.

Fun is currently having a gin and tonic and corn flakes for lunch, he’s the only one who feels well enough to tackle solids. Last night was rough and I now have alcohol regret syndrome. My head feels like someone hit it with a bowling ball full of whiskey. I’ll never drink again. I wouldn’t touch a pint with a stick with a johnny on it. Never again. Probably tomorrow. Why do we do it to ourselves?

When I am old, my skin will be awful but my stories will be second to none.

Follow D's New York debauchery here: @D_JoyceAhearne