My name's Will and I'm definitely still a social alcoholic. I'm drinking while I write this.
So I was going to finish this blog on that last post. I thought it was short, sweet and enigmatic. Several friends, however, told me it was just a bit...well, a bit shit.
They said I owed it to those regular readers who have put up with 12 months of my bleating to at least give a proper account of my Big Moment, and what it feels like to drink again after such a long time.
Well, the Big Moment was, er, a bit of an anti-climax. But then aren't all New Year parties?
Yes, we had a good time. The Egyptian-themed murder mystery thing was good clean fun - if a little borderline racist at times - and it definitely served to take my mind off the looming midnight hour.
However, it's probably worth noting that the whole North African theme malarkey very nearly ruined my Big Moment altogether. I'm not sure how much detail you want on this, but let's just say I'd laid out some delicious Moroccan dates for guests to nibble on before dinner. And let's just say I enjoyed quite a few myself. And let's just say they can go through one's system quite quickly. And let's just say it ain't that easy to go for a quick Eartha when you're wearing pants, shorts and a bedsheet fastened with several safety pins and some gaffer tape.
I was still trying to get dressed when I heard the first of the New Year fireworks go off outside. This panicked me but I managed to race downstairs and I even got the top off a champagne bottle before Big Ben rang out.
I was all set to start drinking then but Gary insisted it wasn't officially 2008 until the twelfth bong had sounded. I didn't think he was right then, and I don't think he's right now, but I sure as hell wasn't prepared to risk 12 months of social isolation for the sake of 30 seconds, so I held off.
Finally, after waiting for those interminal bells to ring out, I put the flute to my lips and took a long sip of chilled champagne. And it tasted like piss.
"This tastes like piss," I said.
"Aha," replied at least three of my guests in unison. "That's because you aren't used to the taste."
"No," I parried. "It's because it tastes like piss. Try some yourself."
"Yup," they conceded. "That does taste like piss. But down it anyway! Down it! Down it! Down it!"
Reader, I downed it.
Thankfully, the rest of that bottle had already been poured out, so I opened a new one all to myself. And that one didn't taste like piss at all. That one tasted like heaven.
I saw it off within about half an hour. People had warned me that a whole bottle would knock me out after such a long period of abstinence but I can honestly say I didn't feel anything more than a warm glow inside and a slightly fuzzy head. It was, I have to say, just lovely.
After the champers I drank about five bottles of Kronenburg, and went to bed at around 3.30am. I awoke at 9am, feeling hot and dehydrated. A bit like Egypt, ironically enough.
Throughout the day I was increasingly visited by that old drinking pal, The Fear, and by about 4pm I was feeling the back-to-school gloom. It struck me that January 1st is just an utter waste of a Bank Holiday. It is good for nothing but sitting under a duvet, watching all those DVDs you got for Christmas, and feeling bloated. So I did.
What lifted my mood, however, was two glasses of red wine at around 7pm. It was only the dregs of two bottles left over from the previous night but, my God, I savoured it like it was that 1961 Cheval Blanc from the film Sideways. It was a celestial moment and it remains my favourite back-to-booze experience so far.
On Wednesday I was truly tempted to go for a post-work pint but managed to resist, on the basis that I would be probably be drinking on Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday as well. Other than that brief moment of sense, I have to confess that I have otherwise reverted to my old habits.
On Thursday I met Duncan in the Penny Lane Wine Bar, had two pints of Guinness and then a curry washed down by three pints of Kingfisher. Not exactly the mother of all binges, but when I awoke at 4am with a dry mouth, pounding head and racing heart I remembered exactly why I went on the wagon.
After feeling sluggish and tired throughout Friday, the sensible option would have been to go home for a quiet night in. Instead I went out with Graham for "two pints, maybe three, but I'll definitely be home by 9pm." I got home at 12.30am, feeling tired, emotional and very well-refreshed following a mini bar crawl to the Penny Lane Wine Bar, the Little Tavern, Mustard, back to the Tavern, and then a nightcap at our mate John's house.
And so for the second day in a row - and the third out of five - I awoke this morning feeling like dessicated shit.
All of my high hopes and hubris - "I'll definitely drink less because this year has taught me about when I need to drink and when I'm just drinking for the sake of it" - seem washed away on a tide of strong lager and red wine.
I sincerely hope it's just a bit of first week madness, but it has reminded me just how easy it is to fall into the ways of the social alkie.
Oh well, at least I haven't gone out boozing tonight. Just stayed in and had a couple of glasses of red. Just to take the edge of, you understand...
Saturday, 5 January 2008
Tuesday, 1 January 2008
Tuesday January 1 - Look Who's Back
My name's Will and I'm still a social alcoholic. It's been 20 minutes since my last drink.
It feels like I've never been away.
It feels like I've never been away.
Monday, 31 December 2007
Monday December 31 - Final Countdown
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 30 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
SIX HOURS TO GO!
My heart is pounding. My cheeks are flushed. My palms are sweating. Every pore in my body is crying out for a drink.
Not an alcoholic drink. It would be a bit weird to start going cold turkey six hours shy of an entire year.
No, I've just tasted the chilli salsa I've spent half the afternoon slaving over and I think I should probably have heeded Jamie's advice to deseed the chillis. I need water.
My fingers are red raw from chilli juice, my back is aching from the day's labour, and I'm covered in that rich cooking sweat which clings to your head.
But am I downhearted?
No siree. Because in less than six hours time, sweet mommy alcohol is coming to kiss away the pain.
Quick checklist.
Champagne in fridge? Check.
Wine in fridge? Check.
Beer chilling in boot of car because no room in fridge due to all the champagne and wine? Check.
Self-restraint, self-respect and selflessness all hanging by a thread, ready to be thrown out the window at midnight? Triple check, baby.
Let's go to work.
SIX HOURS TO GO!
My heart is pounding. My cheeks are flushed. My palms are sweating. Every pore in my body is crying out for a drink.
Not an alcoholic drink. It would be a bit weird to start going cold turkey six hours shy of an entire year.
No, I've just tasted the chilli salsa I've spent half the afternoon slaving over and I think I should probably have heeded Jamie's advice to deseed the chillis. I need water.
My fingers are red raw from chilli juice, my back is aching from the day's labour, and I'm covered in that rich cooking sweat which clings to your head.
But am I downhearted?
No siree. Because in less than six hours time, sweet mommy alcohol is coming to kiss away the pain.
Quick checklist.
Champagne in fridge? Check.
Wine in fridge? Check.
Beer chilling in boot of car because no room in fridge due to all the champagne and wine? Check.
Self-restraint, self-respect and selflessness all hanging by a thread, ready to be thrown out the window at midnight? Triple check, baby.
Let's go to work.
Monday December 31 - So, What Was The Point Again?
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 30 days and 10 hours since my last drink.
14 HOURS TO GO!
Back in the darkest days of this project - ie, any time before my mood lifted in early December - I thought I would awake today feeling like a kid on Christmas Eve. But that's not quite accurate. I feel more like a virgin on prom night. Yes, I'm excited about what lies ahead (I'm talking about drinking booze, now, not being deflowered in the back of a Cadillac by some sweaty-handed quarterback) but I'm also a little bit nervous.
What if it's not as good as I hoped?
What if it feels really horrible?
What if I don't like the taste, or it makes me gag? (Yes, I'm definitely still talking about booze, thank you.)
At least I know that I won't be geting totally plastered tonight, as I can't drink any alcohol until midnight. Yes, I could play catch up and try to get inebriated before Big Ben has struck his final bong, but I doubt I'll do that. On every one of my sober nights this year, any alcohol cravings have disappeared long before midnight. By that time, I've usually felt quite glad that I'm having a good time and I won't have a killer hangover in the morning.
Having said that, maybe the sense of occasion will take over and I'll get lost in the moment. And when I say lost, I mean pissed.
Anyway, I've got three bottles of champagne in the fridge - one of which is all mine! - and eight people coming round in nine hours for an Egyptian-themed dinner party. I'll be playing the part of Tom Tom, a local tour guide. Thankfully, my costume is already sorted. I did a lot of research on the Internet into Egyptian dress and the different styles worn by men of various rank, status and religion in the different regions of this vast and complex country. Then I went to Primark and bought a white bed sheet and a chequered tea-towel for four quid. Job done.
Alas, I do have to buy and cook dinner, and make a start on tidying the house. So any thoughts of spending today writing a long and thoughtful blog entry on this momentous occasion are out the window. In lieu of that, please enjoy this hastily written - but honest - Frequently Asked Questions session.
F.A.Qs
So have you really not drank all year?
I honestly have not touched a drop. I'd tell you if I had. In fact, I always planned to have a relapse at some stage as I thought it would make for a more interesting read. But the moment never quite arose and after I reached the halfway stage I became obsessed with simply completing the year.
Does that include alcohol in food?
I think I may have had the odd stew with a splash of wine thrown in, but I understand that all the alcohol is burned off. I made every effort to avoid puddings with alcohol in them, and even yesterday I had to spit out a chocolate I had randomly selected because it tasted of rum.
Didn't your friends just spike your drink for a laugh?
I'm sure they were tempted to, but I'm fairly sure they didn't. They may well decide to tell me otherwise at about 11.55pm tonight.
Why did you do it?
I could write for hours on this question, but you'd get bored and I'd be faced with some very hungry Egyptian-themed dinner guests tonight. Suffice to say I wanted a challenge, I wanted something to write about, and I wanted to see if my life (which was already very blessed) got any better without the millstone of alcohol around my neck.
Has it been a success?
I'd say yes on every count. Yes, it was a challenge. Yes, it was something to write about and yes, my life got better in quite a few ways.
Has it been a roaring success?
Probably not, if I'm being honest.
I don't think the challenge was as great as I thought it might be. I was never addicted to alcohol in any serious way, so giving it up was just a question of gritting my teeth and getting on with it. Life without booze is tough, but you can still have a great time. Perhaps I'm also guilty of not pushing myself enough, I never did go to the Munich Beer Festival.
I think I also failed to pull up any trees with the writing side of things. There's only so many ways you can write about a bunch of relatively sensible 30-somethings who like to go out and get pissed, but are still quite good company. Maybe I should have made more effort to go out with some more volatile groups - spending the night sober with a bunch of squaddies on the lash in Colchester, for example, would probably throw up a few more tales than sitting in the Penny Lane Wine Bar with Gregg and Graham. But, frankly, I didn't want to.
As for my life getting better, it is almost impossible to say how much of this is down to my sobriety. I've got a great new job, I'm a stone lighter, several grand richer, and my marriage seems better than ever. But I like to think a lot of that would have happened anyway. Apart from the weight loss thing.
Would you do it again?
If anyone ever hears me threatening to do this again, they have my permission to shoot me. Or just get me really pissed until I forget about it.
I do, however, plan to have at least one month off the booze every year.
What was your worst non-drinking moment?
So many contenders. Being forced to sip nothing but mineral water throughout a free wine-tasting evening with one of Italy's top sommeliers in January was tough. Staying sober at not one but two of my own leaving do's was a killer. Watching Gary and Gregg wrestle each other at 4am in a crowded street in Puerto Banus also sticks in the mind.
But all of those experiences had their lighter sides. For pure misery, I'll always come back to the Saturday afternoon of Gregg's stag do in Krakow in June. Sitting in that beer garden while watching every last one of my mates turn into leering, boggle-eyed, aggressive, loudmouth, ranting gobshites was one of the most painful experiences I can remember.
What was your best non-drinking moment?
Thankfully, there have also been many good moments. They all share a theme, which is me realising that I was having an absolutely fantastic time despite - or sometimes even because - I wasn't drinking. Walking through the streets of Barcelona at about 4am after a top night out on Cumbi's stag do springs to mind. (As does the following morning, when my flight back to Liverpool was cancelled and I had to act fast to avoid being stuck there until Wednesday - there's no way I'd have managed that with a hangover.)
Managing to throw off my sober inhibitions long enough to hit the dance floors at all three weddings (Cumbi and Cathy, Gregg and Hannah, Dave and Emma) will also stay with me.
When did you most miss drinking?
Always at the start of the night. Nothing compares to that first hit of strong lager, or Guinness, or red wine. Especially when you mix them together with two parts Cointreau and a dash of lime.
I don't really miss getting drunk. But I do miss drinking.
Also, after golf. To wash away the pain.
Do you think you'll just give up booze forever now?
No, no and thrice no.
Will you go back to your old drinking habits?
I hope not to. I really hope I can remember the lessons of this year, which are basically that some nights need alcohol but many do not. And even those that do need alcohol don't generally need you to stay up drinking flaming Sambucas until 5am.
I plan to drink less on the big nights out, drink much less or even nothing at all on the quiet nights out, and give myself one or two months abstinence in any year. But make sure those months don't coincide with any major social events.
What will you give up next year?
Nothing. I'm done with giving stuff up. It's time to choose life.
14 HOURS TO GO!
Back in the darkest days of this project - ie, any time before my mood lifted in early December - I thought I would awake today feeling like a kid on Christmas Eve. But that's not quite accurate. I feel more like a virgin on prom night. Yes, I'm excited about what lies ahead (I'm talking about drinking booze, now, not being deflowered in the back of a Cadillac by some sweaty-handed quarterback) but I'm also a little bit nervous.
What if it's not as good as I hoped?
What if it feels really horrible?
What if I don't like the taste, or it makes me gag? (Yes, I'm definitely still talking about booze, thank you.)
At least I know that I won't be geting totally plastered tonight, as I can't drink any alcohol until midnight. Yes, I could play catch up and try to get inebriated before Big Ben has struck his final bong, but I doubt I'll do that. On every one of my sober nights this year, any alcohol cravings have disappeared long before midnight. By that time, I've usually felt quite glad that I'm having a good time and I won't have a killer hangover in the morning.
Having said that, maybe the sense of occasion will take over and I'll get lost in the moment. And when I say lost, I mean pissed.
Anyway, I've got three bottles of champagne in the fridge - one of which is all mine! - and eight people coming round in nine hours for an Egyptian-themed dinner party. I'll be playing the part of Tom Tom, a local tour guide. Thankfully, my costume is already sorted. I did a lot of research on the Internet into Egyptian dress and the different styles worn by men of various rank, status and religion in the different regions of this vast and complex country. Then I went to Primark and bought a white bed sheet and a chequered tea-towel for four quid. Job done.
Alas, I do have to buy and cook dinner, and make a start on tidying the house. So any thoughts of spending today writing a long and thoughtful blog entry on this momentous occasion are out the window. In lieu of that, please enjoy this hastily written - but honest - Frequently Asked Questions session.
F.A.Qs
So have you really not drank all year?
I honestly have not touched a drop. I'd tell you if I had. In fact, I always planned to have a relapse at some stage as I thought it would make for a more interesting read. But the moment never quite arose and after I reached the halfway stage I became obsessed with simply completing the year.
Does that include alcohol in food?
I think I may have had the odd stew with a splash of wine thrown in, but I understand that all the alcohol is burned off. I made every effort to avoid puddings with alcohol in them, and even yesterday I had to spit out a chocolate I had randomly selected because it tasted of rum.
Didn't your friends just spike your drink for a laugh?
I'm sure they were tempted to, but I'm fairly sure they didn't. They may well decide to tell me otherwise at about 11.55pm tonight.
Why did you do it?
I could write for hours on this question, but you'd get bored and I'd be faced with some very hungry Egyptian-themed dinner guests tonight. Suffice to say I wanted a challenge, I wanted something to write about, and I wanted to see if my life (which was already very blessed) got any better without the millstone of alcohol around my neck.
Has it been a success?
I'd say yes on every count. Yes, it was a challenge. Yes, it was something to write about and yes, my life got better in quite a few ways.
Has it been a roaring success?
Probably not, if I'm being honest.
I don't think the challenge was as great as I thought it might be. I was never addicted to alcohol in any serious way, so giving it up was just a question of gritting my teeth and getting on with it. Life without booze is tough, but you can still have a great time. Perhaps I'm also guilty of not pushing myself enough, I never did go to the Munich Beer Festival.
I think I also failed to pull up any trees with the writing side of things. There's only so many ways you can write about a bunch of relatively sensible 30-somethings who like to go out and get pissed, but are still quite good company. Maybe I should have made more effort to go out with some more volatile groups - spending the night sober with a bunch of squaddies on the lash in Colchester, for example, would probably throw up a few more tales than sitting in the Penny Lane Wine Bar with Gregg and Graham. But, frankly, I didn't want to.
As for my life getting better, it is almost impossible to say how much of this is down to my sobriety. I've got a great new job, I'm a stone lighter, several grand richer, and my marriage seems better than ever. But I like to think a lot of that would have happened anyway. Apart from the weight loss thing.
Would you do it again?
If anyone ever hears me threatening to do this again, they have my permission to shoot me. Or just get me really pissed until I forget about it.
I do, however, plan to have at least one month off the booze every year.
What was your worst non-drinking moment?
So many contenders. Being forced to sip nothing but mineral water throughout a free wine-tasting evening with one of Italy's top sommeliers in January was tough. Staying sober at not one but two of my own leaving do's was a killer. Watching Gary and Gregg wrestle each other at 4am in a crowded street in Puerto Banus also sticks in the mind.
But all of those experiences had their lighter sides. For pure misery, I'll always come back to the Saturday afternoon of Gregg's stag do in Krakow in June. Sitting in that beer garden while watching every last one of my mates turn into leering, boggle-eyed, aggressive, loudmouth, ranting gobshites was one of the most painful experiences I can remember.
What was your best non-drinking moment?
Thankfully, there have also been many good moments. They all share a theme, which is me realising that I was having an absolutely fantastic time despite - or sometimes even because - I wasn't drinking. Walking through the streets of Barcelona at about 4am after a top night out on Cumbi's stag do springs to mind. (As does the following morning, when my flight back to Liverpool was cancelled and I had to act fast to avoid being stuck there until Wednesday - there's no way I'd have managed that with a hangover.)
Managing to throw off my sober inhibitions long enough to hit the dance floors at all three weddings (Cumbi and Cathy, Gregg and Hannah, Dave and Emma) will also stay with me.
When did you most miss drinking?
Always at the start of the night. Nothing compares to that first hit of strong lager, or Guinness, or red wine. Especially when you mix them together with two parts Cointreau and a dash of lime.
I don't really miss getting drunk. But I do miss drinking.
Also, after golf. To wash away the pain.
Do you think you'll just give up booze forever now?
No, no and thrice no.
Will you go back to your old drinking habits?
I hope not to. I really hope I can remember the lessons of this year, which are basically that some nights need alcohol but many do not. And even those that do need alcohol don't generally need you to stay up drinking flaming Sambucas until 5am.
I plan to drink less on the big nights out, drink much less or even nothing at all on the quiet nights out, and give myself one or two months abstinence in any year. But make sure those months don't coincide with any major social events.
What will you give up next year?
Nothing. I'm done with giving stuff up. It's time to choose life.
Sunday, 30 December 2007
Sunday December 30 - Please Drink Irresponsibly
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 29 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
30 HOURS TO GO!
Went round to Graham and Ali's house last night to play board games, and found myself craving a bottle of red wine.
Not to drink, you understand, but I could have used it as a handy club with which to repeatedly beat myself about the head until the pain had gone away.
Playing Trivial Pursuit can be a stressful business at the best of times. Playing it with seven people who are all at varying levels of intoxication (the only common factor being they were all more pissed than me) - and who, if we're being honest, had varying levels of interest in and understanding of the game itself - was an exhausting experience.
Don't get me wrong. I had a good night. But there's only so many times you can hear John asking "What colour are we again?", Jimmy hilariously giving out wrong answers, Gemma slurring at me to "stop patronising me" (I only asked her if she wanted a go at rolling the die) and Tam and Ali saying "why can't we just play Pictionary?" before you just want to cry.
And there was me thinking a cosy night of parlour games would be a nice easy way to stay off the booze. Thankfully, my gracious hosts had very kindly bought a load of booze-free Becks, which I used to kid my body that it was getting the anaesthetic it so richly deserved.
Watching my fellow players could have made me feel superior. They were all red faces, slurred words and inane banter. But in fact I envied them. I wanted to feel like they did - not like some sober wallflower who's only high that night would be winning Pictionary (albeit by quite some distance, I might add.)
It reminded me of a radio ad campaign for a new soft drink by Schweppes which has been played a lot over the last few days. The ad is a conversation between two pals who talk about staying sober in a manner normally reserved for tales of drunken debauchery.
So, annoying woman #1 says: "Oh my God, I can't believe how sober I was last night!"
Annoying woman #2 replies: "Yeah, I heard you on the karaoke. You didn't hit a wrong note all night!"
Annoying woman #1 says: "And do you remember how I gave everyone else a turn!"
And so it goes on. The message being that by drinking Schweppes' refreshing new beverage you won't wake up feeling embarrassed the morning after the night before. It's not the worst radio ad ever, but it seems to me they are missing the point about going out on the lash. Losing your inhibitions and acting like a prat is all part and parcel of the drinking experience. It is part of the fun, and more importantly you make an unspoken pact with all the other drinkers in the venue - whether that be the trendiest bar in town, or a night of board games round your mate's house. The deal is that they won't mind the fact that you acted like a drunken buffoon because - and here's the good part - they won't remember it. Because they were too wrapped up in their own world of drunken buffoonery to take a blind bit of notice.
The only sand in the ointment is jumped up little prigs like me who sit, smugly sipping on sour fruit juices, and remembering everything.
And for that - to all those who have kindly kept me company during this year of sobriety - I apologise.
Oh well. At least I won't be able to sit in sober judgement on any more of my friends making drunken fools of themselves this year.
Apart from all those coming to the Egyptian-themed murder mystery party round at my gaff tomorrow night. OK, I promise to stop judging people in 2008.
30 HOURS TO GO!
Went round to Graham and Ali's house last night to play board games, and found myself craving a bottle of red wine.
Not to drink, you understand, but I could have used it as a handy club with which to repeatedly beat myself about the head until the pain had gone away.
Playing Trivial Pursuit can be a stressful business at the best of times. Playing it with seven people who are all at varying levels of intoxication (the only common factor being they were all more pissed than me) - and who, if we're being honest, had varying levels of interest in and understanding of the game itself - was an exhausting experience.
Don't get me wrong. I had a good night. But there's only so many times you can hear John asking "What colour are we again?", Jimmy hilariously giving out wrong answers, Gemma slurring at me to "stop patronising me" (I only asked her if she wanted a go at rolling the die) and Tam and Ali saying "why can't we just play Pictionary?" before you just want to cry.
And there was me thinking a cosy night of parlour games would be a nice easy way to stay off the booze. Thankfully, my gracious hosts had very kindly bought a load of booze-free Becks, which I used to kid my body that it was getting the anaesthetic it so richly deserved.
Watching my fellow players could have made me feel superior. They were all red faces, slurred words and inane banter. But in fact I envied them. I wanted to feel like they did - not like some sober wallflower who's only high that night would be winning Pictionary (albeit by quite some distance, I might add.)
It reminded me of a radio ad campaign for a new soft drink by Schweppes which has been played a lot over the last few days. The ad is a conversation between two pals who talk about staying sober in a manner normally reserved for tales of drunken debauchery.
So, annoying woman #1 says: "Oh my God, I can't believe how sober I was last night!"
Annoying woman #2 replies: "Yeah, I heard you on the karaoke. You didn't hit a wrong note all night!"
Annoying woman #1 says: "And do you remember how I gave everyone else a turn!"
And so it goes on. The message being that by drinking Schweppes' refreshing new beverage you won't wake up feeling embarrassed the morning after the night before. It's not the worst radio ad ever, but it seems to me they are missing the point about going out on the lash. Losing your inhibitions and acting like a prat is all part and parcel of the drinking experience. It is part of the fun, and more importantly you make an unspoken pact with all the other drinkers in the venue - whether that be the trendiest bar in town, or a night of board games round your mate's house. The deal is that they won't mind the fact that you acted like a drunken buffoon because - and here's the good part - they won't remember it. Because they were too wrapped up in their own world of drunken buffoonery to take a blind bit of notice.
The only sand in the ointment is jumped up little prigs like me who sit, smugly sipping on sour fruit juices, and remembering everything.
And for that - to all those who have kindly kept me company during this year of sobriety - I apologise.
Oh well. At least I won't be able to sit in sober judgement on any more of my friends making drunken fools of themselves this year.
Apart from all those coming to the Egyptian-themed murder mystery party round at my gaff tomorrow night. OK, I promise to stop judging people in 2008.
Friday, 28 December 2007
Friday December 28 - I Have A Dream
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 27 days and nine hours since my last drink.
THREE DAYS AND 15 HOURS LEFT!
I think I might have started to yearn.
I had the most wonderful dream on Boxing Night. I dreamed I was in a bar at about a quarter to midnight on New Year's Eve. I was chatting to people about how much I was looking forward to boozing again, and what my first drink would be (a conversation I've had about, ooh, 48 times this month), when somebody pointed out that it was five past midnight.
I felt elated that my marathon was over and yet slightly peeved to have missed the big countdown to midnight.
I think this might be a warning from my subconscious. It's telling me not to look forward to the Big Day too much, as it will inevitably disappoint. Or maybe it's just my body telling me to hurry up and get to the bar.
Either way, it is interesting that it took me nearly the whole year to dream about booze. My friend Nick recently told me that as a teenager he gave up, erm, self-abuse, because he wanted to have erotic dreams. He saw them as a source of free porn, but had to wait for a full three months until he had one.
So - and here comes the science bit - that means that Nick was four times more addicted to onanism than I am to alcohol. Pervert.
Gem and I spent Boxing Day at her parents' house in the Black Country and we are now down in Devon visiting my sister Charlotte, Jim, and kids. I hope this explains why I haven't blogged for a few days, as the internet has not been invented yet in either place. In fact, even this brief message I had to scrawl on a piece of parchment and pay an urchin half a crown to cycle it to London. I just pray it reaches you. God speed, little man.
THREE DAYS AND 15 HOURS LEFT!
I think I might have started to yearn.
I had the most wonderful dream on Boxing Night. I dreamed I was in a bar at about a quarter to midnight on New Year's Eve. I was chatting to people about how much I was looking forward to boozing again, and what my first drink would be (a conversation I've had about, ooh, 48 times this month), when somebody pointed out that it was five past midnight.
I felt elated that my marathon was over and yet slightly peeved to have missed the big countdown to midnight.
I think this might be a warning from my subconscious. It's telling me not to look forward to the Big Day too much, as it will inevitably disappoint. Or maybe it's just my body telling me to hurry up and get to the bar.
Either way, it is interesting that it took me nearly the whole year to dream about booze. My friend Nick recently told me that as a teenager he gave up, erm, self-abuse, because he wanted to have erotic dreams. He saw them as a source of free porn, but had to wait for a full three months until he had one.
So - and here comes the science bit - that means that Nick was four times more addicted to onanism than I am to alcohol. Pervert.
Gem and I spent Boxing Day at her parents' house in the Black Country and we are now down in Devon visiting my sister Charlotte, Jim, and kids. I hope this explains why I haven't blogged for a few days, as the internet has not been invented yet in either place. In fact, even this brief message I had to scrawl on a piece of parchment and pay an urchin half a crown to cycle it to London. I just pray it reaches you. God speed, little man.
Tuesday, 25 December 2007
Tuesday December 25th - I'm dreaming of a dry Christmas
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 24 days and 17 hours since my last drink.
SIX DAYS AND SEVEN HOURS LEFT! (THAT'S LESS THAN A WEEK!)
Christmas without booze is a strange thing. It's now 5pm on the big day and, although I've had a perfectly nice time, I still feel like I'm waiting for Chritsmas to actually happen. That's probably because, in my social alkie's mind, Christmas ain't Christmas until you've got that slightly giddy pleasure of being half cut before noon.
Last year I was getting stuck into the Kir Royales (well it is a gay time of year) with breakfast, and onto the strong German beer by the time the Queen (ironically another strong German) was delivering her speech. This year I'm not even allowed to have brandy butter with my Christmas pudding. Which is a shame, because brandy butter is the only thing that makes Christmas pudding even vaguely palatable.
On the plus side, by 5pm on a normal Christmas the fun effects of the alcohol would be wearing off, only to be replaced by a feeling of flush-faced tetchiness. My paper crown would by now be translucent and stuck to my forehead by a sheen of turkey and Sambuca-flavoured sweat. I would be competing for pole position in some kind of unofficial farting contest and the bags under my eyes would begin to resemble the dark meat from a turkey's more unmentionable regions.
Instead, I feel fighting fit and fresh as a daisy. I've had a light lunch, a few apple juices and a bracing walk along the canal. I'm looking forward to a proper Christmas dinner, a couple of films and I'm pretty sure to have a good night's sleep.
Does it feel good? Yes.
Does it feel Christmassey? Nah.
Oh well, the good news is that among a haul of brilliant pressies my folks have given me six bottles of nice-looking wine "to get me started again". I'm genuinely excited at the tought of necking them. And Hannah (my sister) has given me a bottle of what claims to be "the world's strongest lager". It's 14%, which is rather intimidating, but I'm sure I'll find it a good home at around five past midnight on New Year's Day.
Happy Christmas.
PS. Christmas Eve used to be one of the highlights of my drinking calendar - from the mammoth home brew parties I hosted from around the age of 15, to classic school reunion nights in the dodgy hostelries of Solihull and Digbeth, to staggering along Allerton Road when I was supposed to be on call. Last night, however, I went to the Richmond Tavern, had two Britvic 55s (one apple, one orange) and a sparkling mineral water. It's lucky I'm on sobriety autopilot these days, because that kind of behaviour is just wrong, wrong, wrong.
SIX DAYS AND SEVEN HOURS LEFT! (THAT'S LESS THAN A WEEK!)
Christmas without booze is a strange thing. It's now 5pm on the big day and, although I've had a perfectly nice time, I still feel like I'm waiting for Chritsmas to actually happen. That's probably because, in my social alkie's mind, Christmas ain't Christmas until you've got that slightly giddy pleasure of being half cut before noon.
Last year I was getting stuck into the Kir Royales (well it is a gay time of year) with breakfast, and onto the strong German beer by the time the Queen (ironically another strong German) was delivering her speech. This year I'm not even allowed to have brandy butter with my Christmas pudding. Which is a shame, because brandy butter is the only thing that makes Christmas pudding even vaguely palatable.
On the plus side, by 5pm on a normal Christmas the fun effects of the alcohol would be wearing off, only to be replaced by a feeling of flush-faced tetchiness. My paper crown would by now be translucent and stuck to my forehead by a sheen of turkey and Sambuca-flavoured sweat. I would be competing for pole position in some kind of unofficial farting contest and the bags under my eyes would begin to resemble the dark meat from a turkey's more unmentionable regions.
Instead, I feel fighting fit and fresh as a daisy. I've had a light lunch, a few apple juices and a bracing walk along the canal. I'm looking forward to a proper Christmas dinner, a couple of films and I'm pretty sure to have a good night's sleep.
Does it feel good? Yes.
Does it feel Christmassey? Nah.
Oh well, the good news is that among a haul of brilliant pressies my folks have given me six bottles of nice-looking wine "to get me started again". I'm genuinely excited at the tought of necking them. And Hannah (my sister) has given me a bottle of what claims to be "the world's strongest lager". It's 14%, which is rather intimidating, but I'm sure I'll find it a good home at around five past midnight on New Year's Day.
Happy Christmas.
PS. Christmas Eve used to be one of the highlights of my drinking calendar - from the mammoth home brew parties I hosted from around the age of 15, to classic school reunion nights in the dodgy hostelries of Solihull and Digbeth, to staggering along Allerton Road when I was supposed to be on call. Last night, however, I went to the Richmond Tavern, had two Britvic 55s (one apple, one orange) and a sparkling mineral water. It's lucky I'm on sobriety autopilot these days, because that kind of behaviour is just wrong, wrong, wrong.
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