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.
Monday, 31 December 2007
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.
Sunday, 23 December 2007
Sunday December 23 - Am I Cheating?
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 22 days and 16 hours since my last drink.
EIGHT DAYS AND EIGHT HOURS LEFT!
While I do feel that I've done well for nearly reaching the end of this marathon project, I'm slightly disappointed in myself this weekend.
In my drinking days, I would have gone out and made a serious dent in my liver on the weekend before Christmas. Particularly if I was off work for the next 10 days - which I am.
By the strict rules of ths challenge, then, I should have been out larging it all weekend. I should have been knocking back the OJ-and-sodas in town on Friday, while watching all the office shindigs descend into fighting and snog-fests. I should have been out among the Sana hats and Rudolph antlers last night, singing along to FairyTale In New York and elbowing my way through crowds of part-time drinkers to get to the bar and order my refreshing mineral waters. At the very least I should have crowbarred myself into Penny Lane Wine Bar for a festive Kaliber.
But I didn't. On Friday the closest I came to going out was when I went ice skating for half an hour. Well, say ice skating, but it was more like shuffling around a 12ft square piece of plastic inside St George's Hall. The best thing about that was being pulled over on the way there in a random Merseyside Police drink-drive crackdown.
The copper, who looked like he may well have been out past his bedtime, said: "Have you had a drink tonight, sir?"
"No," I replied.
"What about earlier today?" asked the pipsqueak.
"No, none at all." I said.
"So you think you'd pass a breathalyser test if we asked you to take one right now?" he said.
"Well, considering my last drink was on New Year's Eve last year, sunshine," I replied, "I reckon I might just pass with flying colours. Now why don't you let me get on my way, you fascist pig. I'll have you know I'm late for an extremely important ice skating appointment."
OK, so that last bit wasn't really true. I actually didn't mention my year of sobriety at all because I was concerned that such an admission would make me sound like a raving madman, and they'd want to pin something on me just to get me off the streets.
But wouldn't it have been ace if I had said that.
As for last night, I actually volunteered to forego a night out in favour of watching the Strictly Come Dancing final round at Jimmy and Tam's. And tonight I'm going to the cinema to watch a soppy Christmas film with Gem. I know, I know - next year I'm going to have a year of undiluted heterosexuality to make amends.
But to be honest, I feel like I've now drunk enough bloody fruit juice and soda to last me a lifetime. I'll probably go to the pub on Christmas Eve - and I'll probably enjoy it - but right now I just can't be arsed facing the Christmas crowds without a fortifying egg nog inside me.
Cheating? Possibly, but who really cares. I feel like a cyclist at the end of a stage on the Tour de France. I know I should be sprinting to the finish line but, frankly, I'm happy to freewheel this last bit, and just be glad that I've made it to the end in one piece.
EIGHT DAYS AND EIGHT HOURS LEFT!
While I do feel that I've done well for nearly reaching the end of this marathon project, I'm slightly disappointed in myself this weekend.
In my drinking days, I would have gone out and made a serious dent in my liver on the weekend before Christmas. Particularly if I was off work for the next 10 days - which I am.
By the strict rules of ths challenge, then, I should have been out larging it all weekend. I should have been knocking back the OJ-and-sodas in town on Friday, while watching all the office shindigs descend into fighting and snog-fests. I should have been out among the Sana hats and Rudolph antlers last night, singing along to FairyTale In New York and elbowing my way through crowds of part-time drinkers to get to the bar and order my refreshing mineral waters. At the very least I should have crowbarred myself into Penny Lane Wine Bar for a festive Kaliber.
But I didn't. On Friday the closest I came to going out was when I went ice skating for half an hour. Well, say ice skating, but it was more like shuffling around a 12ft square piece of plastic inside St George's Hall. The best thing about that was being pulled over on the way there in a random Merseyside Police drink-drive crackdown.
The copper, who looked like he may well have been out past his bedtime, said: "Have you had a drink tonight, sir?"
"No," I replied.
"What about earlier today?" asked the pipsqueak.
"No, none at all." I said.
"So you think you'd pass a breathalyser test if we asked you to take one right now?" he said.
"Well, considering my last drink was on New Year's Eve last year, sunshine," I replied, "I reckon I might just pass with flying colours. Now why don't you let me get on my way, you fascist pig. I'll have you know I'm late for an extremely important ice skating appointment."
OK, so that last bit wasn't really true. I actually didn't mention my year of sobriety at all because I was concerned that such an admission would make me sound like a raving madman, and they'd want to pin something on me just to get me off the streets.
But wouldn't it have been ace if I had said that.
As for last night, I actually volunteered to forego a night out in favour of watching the Strictly Come Dancing final round at Jimmy and Tam's. And tonight I'm going to the cinema to watch a soppy Christmas film with Gem. I know, I know - next year I'm going to have a year of undiluted heterosexuality to make amends.
But to be honest, I feel like I've now drunk enough bloody fruit juice and soda to last me a lifetime. I'll probably go to the pub on Christmas Eve - and I'll probably enjoy it - but right now I just can't be arsed facing the Christmas crowds without a fortifying egg nog inside me.
Cheating? Possibly, but who really cares. I feel like a cyclist at the end of a stage on the Tour de France. I know I should be sprinting to the finish line but, frankly, I'm happy to freewheel this last bit, and just be glad that I've made it to the end in one piece.
Friday, 21 December 2007
Friday December 21 - Woooorrks Out For Christmas
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 20 days and 16 hours since my last drink.
10 DAYS AND EIGHT HOURS TO GO!
Sorry to be so smug - fair comment, Chris - but it does seem that the final stretch of this project is more of a Disney cheese-fest than a gritty kitchen sink drama.
As far as I can tell, there will be no denouement in which I am found passed out and soggy-trousered at 10.45pm on the 31st.
This Christmas run-up continues to go relatively smoothly. The Liverpool Album launch was a bit of a let down, as expected (I never thought I'd actually hear myself using the phrase: "I preferred the original Atomic Kitten version.") but I braved it out on a heady mixture of soda water and pure, manly grit.
Last night could have been messy, as I went for a post-work Christmas curry with Duncan, Chris and Ali. We've been feeling pretty demob happy all week and I feared a potential lapse during that 5pm to 7pm pre-meal session in the pub. However, as 'luck' would have it, I was asked to run out on a news job at 4.30pm and didn't finish until after 7, so that particular window of festive cheer was slammed shut.
And even this morning, when the boss provided mulled wine and beer during the comms meeting (God, I love working here), I stuck to the tea.
Tonight we're having a works trip to the temporary ice rink inside St George's Hall, with yet more mulled wine a-flowing. Providing I resist that - which I'm fairly sure I will, even if it does smell so damn good - that will be my last work-related act as a sober man.
I'll next be in work on January 2nd, when I'll be free to drink whatever the hell I like.
I think I should feel elated but it just feels...weird. Oh well, I'm sure I'll get used to it. And if I feel in any way awkward or unsettled by this new-found freedom, I can just drink my way through it.
10 DAYS AND EIGHT HOURS TO GO!
Sorry to be so smug - fair comment, Chris - but it does seem that the final stretch of this project is more of a Disney cheese-fest than a gritty kitchen sink drama.
As far as I can tell, there will be no denouement in which I am found passed out and soggy-trousered at 10.45pm on the 31st.
This Christmas run-up continues to go relatively smoothly. The Liverpool Album launch was a bit of a let down, as expected (I never thought I'd actually hear myself using the phrase: "I preferred the original Atomic Kitten version.") but I braved it out on a heady mixture of soda water and pure, manly grit.
Last night could have been messy, as I went for a post-work Christmas curry with Duncan, Chris and Ali. We've been feeling pretty demob happy all week and I feared a potential lapse during that 5pm to 7pm pre-meal session in the pub. However, as 'luck' would have it, I was asked to run out on a news job at 4.30pm and didn't finish until after 7, so that particular window of festive cheer was slammed shut.
And even this morning, when the boss provided mulled wine and beer during the comms meeting (God, I love working here), I stuck to the tea.
Tonight we're having a works trip to the temporary ice rink inside St George's Hall, with yet more mulled wine a-flowing. Providing I resist that - which I'm fairly sure I will, even if it does smell so damn good - that will be my last work-related act as a sober man.
I'll next be in work on January 2nd, when I'll be free to drink whatever the hell I like.
I think I should feel elated but it just feels...weird. Oh well, I'm sure I'll get used to it. And if I feel in any way awkward or unsettled by this new-found freedom, I can just drink my way through it.
Wednesday, 19 December 2007
Wednesday December 19 - Help! I Need Some Boozey
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 18 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
13 DAYS AND 6 HOURS TO GO - THAT'S LESS THAN A FORTNIGHT, PEOPLE!
Hmmmm. Beginning to wish I hadn't been so boastful about my imperviousness to temptation this month. I'm just about to go to the launch of an album called Liverpool - The Number Ones Album.
It's basically a load of Liverpool artists doing cover versions of songs by other Liverpool artists.
Here's just a selection of the joys to come...
Three Shirts On A Line, by the Scaffold (that's their hilariously revised title, not mine)
You Spin Me Right Round, by Atomic Kitten
You To Me Are Everything, by Ray Quinn
Ferry Across The Mersey, by The Real People
I think I might need a hefty snifter after listening to that lot.
Oh well. It's all for charidee, mate.
Wish me luck.
13 DAYS AND 6 HOURS TO GO - THAT'S LESS THAN A FORTNIGHT, PEOPLE!
Hmmmm. Beginning to wish I hadn't been so boastful about my imperviousness to temptation this month. I'm just about to go to the launch of an album called Liverpool - The Number Ones Album.
It's basically a load of Liverpool artists doing cover versions of songs by other Liverpool artists.
Here's just a selection of the joys to come...
Three Shirts On A Line, by the Scaffold (that's their hilariously revised title, not mine)
You Spin Me Right Round, by Atomic Kitten
You To Me Are Everything, by Ray Quinn
Ferry Across The Mersey, by The Real People
I think I might need a hefty snifter after listening to that lot.
Oh well. It's all for charidee, mate.
Wish me luck.
Tuesday, 18 December 2007
Tuesday December 18 - Return of The Fear?
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 17 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
13 DAYS AND SIX HOURS TO GO!
A thought struck me yesterday evening. It was both worrying and encouraging in equal measure.
I am now so used to sleeping soundly on a Sunday night that I had nearly forgotten about The Fear.
The Fear, as discussed at the beginning of this blog, is that creeping sense of paranoia which begins at around 6pm on the Sunday of a heavy weekend. By the time you go to bed it is a massive black cloud of depression and discomfort which keeps you awake, no matter how tired you are.
The Fear is what makes Mondays so unbearable for so many people, yet it is entirely avoidable. I have skipped through nearly every Monday of 2007 simply because, no matter how late I stayed up, I haven't drunk ridiculous amounts of that well-known depressant, alcohol.
So what was the thought that struck me on Monday? Well, I finish work this Friday and won't be back in until January 2nd, 2008. And that's a Wednesday.
So by the time I work my next Monday, I'll be boozing again. Which means I'll be Fearful again. It's a nice thought, in a way, as it is yet another sign that this sober year is nearly up. But it's also a nasty thought, because I've rather enjoyed not being a sweaty, grumpy, nervous wreck for one-fifth of every working week.
Of course, I don't have to be Fearful on Mondays in 2008. Just because I can drink again, that doesn't mean I have to.
It's just a strong possibility that I will.
Oh well. Who needs nice Mondays anyway?
13 DAYS AND SIX HOURS TO GO!
A thought struck me yesterday evening. It was both worrying and encouraging in equal measure.
I am now so used to sleeping soundly on a Sunday night that I had nearly forgotten about The Fear.
The Fear, as discussed at the beginning of this blog, is that creeping sense of paranoia which begins at around 6pm on the Sunday of a heavy weekend. By the time you go to bed it is a massive black cloud of depression and discomfort which keeps you awake, no matter how tired you are.
The Fear is what makes Mondays so unbearable for so many people, yet it is entirely avoidable. I have skipped through nearly every Monday of 2007 simply because, no matter how late I stayed up, I haven't drunk ridiculous amounts of that well-known depressant, alcohol.
So what was the thought that struck me on Monday? Well, I finish work this Friday and won't be back in until January 2nd, 2008. And that's a Wednesday.
So by the time I work my next Monday, I'll be boozing again. Which means I'll be Fearful again. It's a nice thought, in a way, as it is yet another sign that this sober year is nearly up. But it's also a nasty thought, because I've rather enjoyed not being a sweaty, grumpy, nervous wreck for one-fifth of every working week.
Of course, I don't have to be Fearful on Mondays in 2008. Just because I can drink again, that doesn't mean I have to.
It's just a strong possibility that I will.
Oh well. Who needs nice Mondays anyway?
Sunday, 16 December 2007
Sunday December 16 - The Office Xmas Bash
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 15 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
15 DAYS AND SIX HOURS TO GO!
Went to the office Christmas bash last night. Unlike the office parties of sitcoms - which are surely the only office parties to be held in the office - this one took place in a great pub called the Blackburne Arms, near Liverpool city centre.
At the start of the year, I would have cited the works Christmas bash as one of the drinking highlights of any given year. It is right up there in the Holy Trinity of binge drinking: weddings, stag nights, works xmas do.
However, as I've said previously, I feel so elated at being so close to achieving my year-long goal that nothing really daunts me right now. What's two more weeks of sobriety after 11 and a half months?
My mood was lifted even further on Saturday morning, as we put up the Christmas decorations. In previous years, this traditional Saturday morning chore would usually end in tears as I would struggle to fit a seven-foot tree into a Nissan Micra while sweating Guinness and kebab through every pore, including my eyeballs, then disagree with Gem over the correct way to fix the lights (I say wind them round, she says drape and zig zag).
But on the back of a sober night's sleep, we had the job done sans aggro in less than two hours. Moreover, as soon as the decs were up, it reminded me of the house last December, when I first took this stupid vow. They are a visual reminder that the cycle is almost complete.
On that mind set, the office do was a doddle. Yes, it was a long shift - 7.30pm to 3.30am by my watch. Yes, it was a total sickener that Radio City had laid on yet another free bar, which I could exploit to nothing more than a booze-free Becks (which ran out by 9pm) or sparkling water. Yes, it was slightly embarrassing being forced to dance to Celine Dion's I Know My Heart Will Go On by a slightly woozy lady from Sales. And, yes, perhaps I would have had the nerve to join in the various dance offs or even the Hokey Cokey with a bit of Dutch courage.
But was it a trial? Not at all. I had great fun watching my colleagues get slowly bladdered and - in no particular order - puke in the yard, fall over, show off their party knickers, make spazzy faces behind each other's backs and generally bitch, backstab, gossip, confess, leer, letch, flirt and occasionally grope their way into the small hours. It was ace fun.
I actually do feel slightly hungover today. Probably due to the lack of sleep but maybe because it is impossible to be around so much drunkenness without at least some of it seeping in through the skin. But even so, I still reckon I'll have the brightest eyes and bushiest tail in the tower tomorrow, by some distance.
15 DAYS AND SIX HOURS TO GO!
Went to the office Christmas bash last night. Unlike the office parties of sitcoms - which are surely the only office parties to be held in the office - this one took place in a great pub called the Blackburne Arms, near Liverpool city centre.
At the start of the year, I would have cited the works Christmas bash as one of the drinking highlights of any given year. It is right up there in the Holy Trinity of binge drinking: weddings, stag nights, works xmas do.
However, as I've said previously, I feel so elated at being so close to achieving my year-long goal that nothing really daunts me right now. What's two more weeks of sobriety after 11 and a half months?
My mood was lifted even further on Saturday morning, as we put up the Christmas decorations. In previous years, this traditional Saturday morning chore would usually end in tears as I would struggle to fit a seven-foot tree into a Nissan Micra while sweating Guinness and kebab through every pore, including my eyeballs, then disagree with Gem over the correct way to fix the lights (I say wind them round, she says drape and zig zag).
But on the back of a sober night's sleep, we had the job done sans aggro in less than two hours. Moreover, as soon as the decs were up, it reminded me of the house last December, when I first took this stupid vow. They are a visual reminder that the cycle is almost complete.
On that mind set, the office do was a doddle. Yes, it was a long shift - 7.30pm to 3.30am by my watch. Yes, it was a total sickener that Radio City had laid on yet another free bar, which I could exploit to nothing more than a booze-free Becks (which ran out by 9pm) or sparkling water. Yes, it was slightly embarrassing being forced to dance to Celine Dion's I Know My Heart Will Go On by a slightly woozy lady from Sales. And, yes, perhaps I would have had the nerve to join in the various dance offs or even the Hokey Cokey with a bit of Dutch courage.
But was it a trial? Not at all. I had great fun watching my colleagues get slowly bladdered and - in no particular order - puke in the yard, fall over, show off their party knickers, make spazzy faces behind each other's backs and generally bitch, backstab, gossip, confess, leer, letch, flirt and occasionally grope their way into the small hours. It was ace fun.
I actually do feel slightly hungover today. Probably due to the lack of sleep but maybe because it is impossible to be around so much drunkenness without at least some of it seeping in through the skin. But even so, I still reckon I'll have the brightest eyes and bushiest tail in the tower tomorrow, by some distance.
Friday, 14 December 2007
Friday December 14 - Showbiz Makes Me Thirsty
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 13 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
17 DAYS AND SIX HOURS TIL BIG BEN BRINGS BOOZE! (That's the clock. Not some kind of butch delivery service.)
I felt an incredibly strong urge to go for a pint or six at about 2pm today.
Ever since joining City Talk I've been mooting the idea of a topical news quiz show, along similar lines to Have I Got News For You.
It was one of those scary projects which could always be displaced by something more mundane. So that's what I did.
Until today, that is, when I finally bit the bullet and - with much help from producers Kim and Ali - we actually did a pilot.
Trying to be funny in public is nerve-wracking. Trying to be funny in front of two professional comics, two experienced broadcasters and a host of tech ops and producers is, well, brown pants time.
To be fair, it went pretty well. I ummed and ahed a bit, messed up a couple of cues, and forgot to prrrrroooooject my flat Brummie vowels properly, but I got a few laughs and so did the panellists.
After the hour was up I felt that heady mixture of elation and relief that only alcohol could match. Unsurprisingly, it was exactly the same feeling I had after standing in for Pete Price's late-night show back in April. Avoiding alcohol was easier back then, as it was 1am on a wet Wednesday night, with most of the pubs shut and no friends to drink with. Today, on the other hand, it would have been (and could still be) oh-so-easy to find a cosy boozer and a few pals to share my joy.
Still, so far so good. I settled for two cups of tea in the canteen, and I'll be off home shortly to bosh the rest of last night's curry and booze-free lager.
Yes, a proper pint would be nicer, but I'm not going to throw it away when I'm so close. Eyes on the prize, baby. Eyes on the prize.
17 DAYS AND SIX HOURS TIL BIG BEN BRINGS BOOZE! (That's the clock. Not some kind of butch delivery service.)
I felt an incredibly strong urge to go for a pint or six at about 2pm today.
Ever since joining City Talk I've been mooting the idea of a topical news quiz show, along similar lines to Have I Got News For You.
It was one of those scary projects which could always be displaced by something more mundane. So that's what I did.
Until today, that is, when I finally bit the bullet and - with much help from producers Kim and Ali - we actually did a pilot.
Trying to be funny in public is nerve-wracking. Trying to be funny in front of two professional comics, two experienced broadcasters and a host of tech ops and producers is, well, brown pants time.
To be fair, it went pretty well. I ummed and ahed a bit, messed up a couple of cues, and forgot to prrrrroooooject my flat Brummie vowels properly, but I got a few laughs and so did the panellists.
After the hour was up I felt that heady mixture of elation and relief that only alcohol could match. Unsurprisingly, it was exactly the same feeling I had after standing in for Pete Price's late-night show back in April. Avoiding alcohol was easier back then, as it was 1am on a wet Wednesday night, with most of the pubs shut and no friends to drink with. Today, on the other hand, it would have been (and could still be) oh-so-easy to find a cosy boozer and a few pals to share my joy.
Still, so far so good. I settled for two cups of tea in the canteen, and I'll be off home shortly to bosh the rest of last night's curry and booze-free lager.
Yes, a proper pint would be nicer, but I'm not going to throw it away when I'm so close. Eyes on the prize, baby. Eyes on the prize.
Thursday, 13 December 2007
Thursday December 13 - I'm on the turn.
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 12 days and 19 hours since my last drink.
18 DAYS AND FIVE HOURS TIL OBLIVION!
Every blog entry starts with my admission to being a social alcoholic, but I'm not even sure that's true any more..
It's nearly the end of a hard working week and I haven't thought about booze once all day.
One of my best pals has officially emigrated and I don't need a pint to cheer me up.
I'm cooking up a superhot curry downstairs and I don't even care that I won't be having a proper beer with it. (Although I do have a six-pack of non-alcoholic Bitburger Drive - God bless those Germans and their inventiveness in the field of party pooping.)
And even the looming shadow of the Radio City/City Talk Christmas party - which takes place in a pub on Saturday with karaoke and disco dancing - does not make me want to hit the bottle.
I think I'm cured.
18 DAYS AND FIVE HOURS TIL OBLIVION!
Every blog entry starts with my admission to being a social alcoholic, but I'm not even sure that's true any more..
It's nearly the end of a hard working week and I haven't thought about booze once all day.
One of my best pals has officially emigrated and I don't need a pint to cheer me up.
I'm cooking up a superhot curry downstairs and I don't even care that I won't be having a proper beer with it. (Although I do have a six-pack of non-alcoholic Bitburger Drive - God bless those Germans and their inventiveness in the field of party pooping.)
And even the looming shadow of the Radio City/City Talk Christmas party - which takes place in a pub on Saturday with karaoke and disco dancing - does not make me want to hit the bottle.
I think I'm cured.
Wednesday, 12 December 2007
Wednesday December 12 - Anniversary of an Idea
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 11 days and 22 hours since my last drink.
19 DAYS AND TWO HOURS TIL BOOZE O'CLOCK!
Today was a very special anniversary.
On December 12 last year I went to see Tenacious D play a gig in Manchester.
Despite Manchester lying just 35 miles east of Liverpool, this event required me to take not one but two days off work.
We had to take the Tuesday off to ensure that we got to Manchester with plenty of time spare to get drunk before the concert.
And we had to take the Wednesday off to ensure we had plenty of time spare to get even drunker after the concert.
Naturally, we also had to fork out for Travelodge rooms because none of us were willing to drive home, and we knew we'd be drinking until well after the last train.
It did not strike me until some time on Tuesday afternoon how ridiculous this was, and how much my life revolved around booze. I was not physically addicted to drink, but I never even tried to envisage a social event without it.
It was at this precise moment that I was struck by the idea of a sober year, and I still remember breaking the news to the lads in some grubby little boozer in Manchester that very night - before I lost my nerve or forgot all about it - that I would not touch a drop during 2007.
There have been a few times this year when I regretted being struck by that particular thunderbolt - and deciding to act on it - but there have been many more times when I was glad of it.
That doesn't mean I'm not gasping for a pint on January 1, though.
19 DAYS AND TWO HOURS TIL BOOZE O'CLOCK!
Today was a very special anniversary.
On December 12 last year I went to see Tenacious D play a gig in Manchester.
Despite Manchester lying just 35 miles east of Liverpool, this event required me to take not one but two days off work.
We had to take the Tuesday off to ensure that we got to Manchester with plenty of time spare to get drunk before the concert.
And we had to take the Wednesday off to ensure we had plenty of time spare to get even drunker after the concert.
Naturally, we also had to fork out for Travelodge rooms because none of us were willing to drive home, and we knew we'd be drinking until well after the last train.
It did not strike me until some time on Tuesday afternoon how ridiculous this was, and how much my life revolved around booze. I was not physically addicted to drink, but I never even tried to envisage a social event without it.
It was at this precise moment that I was struck by the idea of a sober year, and I still remember breaking the news to the lads in some grubby little boozer in Manchester that very night - before I lost my nerve or forgot all about it - that I would not touch a drop during 2007.
There have been a few times this year when I regretted being struck by that particular thunderbolt - and deciding to act on it - but there have been many more times when I was glad of it.
That doesn't mean I'm not gasping for a pint on January 1, though.
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
Tuesday December 11 - Stiffening Resolve
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 10 days and 20 hours since my last drink.
20 DAYS AND FOUR HOURS TIL SOBRIETY IS SUNK!
I'm still so excited about the looming end of this year-long idiocy that I feel I can survive anything without booze.
Which is handy. Because watching your balding, badly dressed, 30-something mates have a dance off in a crowded nightclub at 1am on a Tuesday morning - a Tuesday morning, mind you - takes all the strength you have.
Even in my salad days, I'm not sure I went out dancing on a Monday night. Monday nights ain't for dancing. They're not even really for talking, moving, thinking, or doing any type of thing other than watching TV, or perhaps quietly weeping at the thought of another 40 years until retirement.
Anyway, we had to go out last night because Gregg flies to Dubai tomorrow and it was his final, final leaving do. I knew it must have been an important night because Jimmy had been given permission to come out by Tam.
It was supposed to be a civilised night in the Penny Lane Wine Bar. And it was civilised. For a while. About ten of us then went to Lief and, at around 11pm, it was time to give Gregg a manly hug and say my goodbyes.
So I did. But then he made me go to Heebie Jeebies. The WAGs sensibly retired at this stage, so it was just me, Gregg, Jimmy, Gary, Cardy, Graham, Carl and Nick who braved sub-zero temperatures and headed for town.
HJs was packed with the usual crowd of students and trendy urbane types, who seemed a bit sniffy at the sight of so many unappealing men dusting off our moves in the smokers' courtyard.
They seemed perplexed that Jimmy would actually pull on one of his massive woolly gloves to do a Michael Jackson impression.
They seemed annoyed that Gregg would run across the courtyard and dive into Carl's arms in homage to the famous Dirty Dancing lift.
They even looked slightly hostile when Carl performed a near perfect River Dance jig on the stage.
As the only sober man present, I must admit to finding their behaviour embarrassing and life-affirming in equal measure. Yes, it was painful to watch at times, but what's wrong with a group of mates trying to give their pal a proper send off? What's wrong with a bunch of ageing hipsters re-discovering the joy of moving to music? What's wrong with waving your hands in the air like you just don't care? And what's wrong with buying Gregg a pack of herbal Viagara tablets from the toilets, making him take the lot, and then spending the rest of the night bellowing "FRAY! FRAY! HAVE YOU GOT A BONER YET?" across the crowded courtyard?
Actually, to be fair, there is something very wrong with that last bit. Jimmy went too far with that. And Gregg definitely shouldn't have shown it off. Bet he doesn't do that in Dubai.
20 DAYS AND FOUR HOURS TIL SOBRIETY IS SUNK!
I'm still so excited about the looming end of this year-long idiocy that I feel I can survive anything without booze.
Which is handy. Because watching your balding, badly dressed, 30-something mates have a dance off in a crowded nightclub at 1am on a Tuesday morning - a Tuesday morning, mind you - takes all the strength you have.
Even in my salad days, I'm not sure I went out dancing on a Monday night. Monday nights ain't for dancing. They're not even really for talking, moving, thinking, or doing any type of thing other than watching TV, or perhaps quietly weeping at the thought of another 40 years until retirement.
Anyway, we had to go out last night because Gregg flies to Dubai tomorrow and it was his final, final leaving do. I knew it must have been an important night because Jimmy had been given permission to come out by Tam.
It was supposed to be a civilised night in the Penny Lane Wine Bar. And it was civilised. For a while. About ten of us then went to Lief and, at around 11pm, it was time to give Gregg a manly hug and say my goodbyes.
So I did. But then he made me go to Heebie Jeebies. The WAGs sensibly retired at this stage, so it was just me, Gregg, Jimmy, Gary, Cardy, Graham, Carl and Nick who braved sub-zero temperatures and headed for town.
HJs was packed with the usual crowd of students and trendy urbane types, who seemed a bit sniffy at the sight of so many unappealing men dusting off our moves in the smokers' courtyard.
They seemed perplexed that Jimmy would actually pull on one of his massive woolly gloves to do a Michael Jackson impression.
They seemed annoyed that Gregg would run across the courtyard and dive into Carl's arms in homage to the famous Dirty Dancing lift.
They even looked slightly hostile when Carl performed a near perfect River Dance jig on the stage.
As the only sober man present, I must admit to finding their behaviour embarrassing and life-affirming in equal measure. Yes, it was painful to watch at times, but what's wrong with a group of mates trying to give their pal a proper send off? What's wrong with a bunch of ageing hipsters re-discovering the joy of moving to music? What's wrong with waving your hands in the air like you just don't care? And what's wrong with buying Gregg a pack of herbal Viagara tablets from the toilets, making him take the lot, and then spending the rest of the night bellowing "FRAY! FRAY! HAVE YOU GOT A BONER YET?" across the crowded courtyard?
Actually, to be fair, there is something very wrong with that last bit. Jimmy went too far with that. And Gregg definitely shouldn't have shown it off. Bet he doesn't do that in Dubai.
Sunday, 9 December 2007
Sunday December 9 - Northern Uproar
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, eight days and 15 hours since my last drink.
22 DAYS AND NINE HOURS TIL SHOW TIME!
Ever seen one of those films where the cops raid a gambling den and all the tables magically flip over to replace the cards and booze etc with something innocent, like tea and cakes?
I went somewhere like that last night. But in this case the transformation was from sophisticated restaurant to chavtastic Butlins-style disco. And I absolutely love it.
Gem and I went to Manchester for a meal with some old uni pals. Emma and Dave, who live in the area, had chosen a classy-looking venue called Stock. It's housed in a former stock exchange just off Cross Street - a truly beautiful setting with an ornate domed ceiling, wooden panelling galore, and the whiff of old money seeping from every cornice.
Likewise, the menu was a sophisticated affair - scallops, wood pigeon, dover sole, and all the other stuff you don't tend to find on a Beefeater menu.
They even took our coats on arrival - for free! - a sure sign of a classy do.
So far, so posh. Yes, perhaps we should have smelled a rat when some of the finer details didn't stack up. But maybe the cheap crackers, complete with paper crowns, had been left out as an ironic touch of kitsch. Ditto the cheesey Christmas music, controlled by a tubby little DJ who looked like a fat Gordon Strachcan. Perhaps the fact that all the tables were laid out for parties of at least eight was simply a sign of the restaurant's success.
I suppose the first proper clue when fat Gordon began clearing tables from the middle of the room. Suddenly, the Christmas CD came off and some old classics crashed over the speakers. Barry White, Tom Jones, Glen Campbell.
"I think some dancing's going to break out within minutes," I told Dave.
I was right. Within 60 seconds a group of four middle aged women had shuffled onto Gordon's hastily improvised dance floor and began gingerly shaking their hips. Within seconds a rather brazen young lady who, in all honesty, was slightly too fleshy to be wearing that backless frock, leapt up from a different table and dragged a rather hapless looking man (let's call him Ken from Accounts) onto the clearing.
Moving almost too fast for the human eye, fat Gordon then pulled out his trump card. With all the skill of Captain Hook wearing mittens, he mixed in the unmistakeable sound of a Neil Diamond intro.
"Sweeeeeeet Caroline!", sang the speakers.
"Bah! Bah! Bah!" replied the crowd - many of them now waving their hands in the air for some synchronised swaying, shirt sleeves falling upwards to reveal muscular forearms covered with fading blue ink. And that was just the women.
"My God!", I cried. "It's a trap. We've gone and walked into an office party venue."
The look on Emma's face was priceless. Her classy night out had been hijacked by the guys and gals from Prontaprint. Fat Gordon was playing Abba by now, and backless dress girl was grinding her ample buttocks into Ken from Accounts' crotch. A gaggle of women were already gathered around one crying female outside the ladies' toilets - the first of many casualties. And our paper napkins were being blown off the table by the breeze caused by flapping bingo wings.
"This is fantastic," cried Murph, swinging his arms aloft to Hi Ho Silver Lining. "Let's stay here all night."
I agreed with him but others were keen to leave. We ended up in a trendy bar in the northern quarter. It was called Socio-Rehab, and sold cocktails which came with a Wham bar. There were no backless dresses - just faux vintage t-shirts with ironic slogans. There was no Neil Diamond - just gritty drum n bass. There was no synchronised arm-waving - although head-nodding was permitted, providing you didn't smile.
I didn't put up any resistance when Gem suggested hitting the road at about 12.30am. Nothing else was ever going to hold a candle to Stock.
I should have gone to bed when we got back to the Pool. Instead I went around to Jimmy's house and stayed up until 4.30am to watch the Hatton-Mayweather fight. Being sober meant this was the first late-night boxing match I've ever managed to stay awake for. I kinda wish I hadn't now, as it was sad to see Ricky looking so shell-shocked and humiliated after being royally pounded into the early hours.
No-one can ever really know how that feels. Although I reckon Ken from Accounts has a fairly good idea.
22 DAYS AND NINE HOURS TIL SHOW TIME!
Ever seen one of those films where the cops raid a gambling den and all the tables magically flip over to replace the cards and booze etc with something innocent, like tea and cakes?
I went somewhere like that last night. But in this case the transformation was from sophisticated restaurant to chavtastic Butlins-style disco. And I absolutely love it.
Gem and I went to Manchester for a meal with some old uni pals. Emma and Dave, who live in the area, had chosen a classy-looking venue called Stock. It's housed in a former stock exchange just off Cross Street - a truly beautiful setting with an ornate domed ceiling, wooden panelling galore, and the whiff of old money seeping from every cornice.
Likewise, the menu was a sophisticated affair - scallops, wood pigeon, dover sole, and all the other stuff you don't tend to find on a Beefeater menu.
They even took our coats on arrival - for free! - a sure sign of a classy do.
So far, so posh. Yes, perhaps we should have smelled a rat when some of the finer details didn't stack up. But maybe the cheap crackers, complete with paper crowns, had been left out as an ironic touch of kitsch. Ditto the cheesey Christmas music, controlled by a tubby little DJ who looked like a fat Gordon Strachcan. Perhaps the fact that all the tables were laid out for parties of at least eight was simply a sign of the restaurant's success.
I suppose the first proper clue when fat Gordon began clearing tables from the middle of the room. Suddenly, the Christmas CD came off and some old classics crashed over the speakers. Barry White, Tom Jones, Glen Campbell.
"I think some dancing's going to break out within minutes," I told Dave.
I was right. Within 60 seconds a group of four middle aged women had shuffled onto Gordon's hastily improvised dance floor and began gingerly shaking their hips. Within seconds a rather brazen young lady who, in all honesty, was slightly too fleshy to be wearing that backless frock, leapt up from a different table and dragged a rather hapless looking man (let's call him Ken from Accounts) onto the clearing.
Moving almost too fast for the human eye, fat Gordon then pulled out his trump card. With all the skill of Captain Hook wearing mittens, he mixed in the unmistakeable sound of a Neil Diamond intro.
"Sweeeeeeet Caroline!", sang the speakers.
"Bah! Bah! Bah!" replied the crowd - many of them now waving their hands in the air for some synchronised swaying, shirt sleeves falling upwards to reveal muscular forearms covered with fading blue ink. And that was just the women.
"My God!", I cried. "It's a trap. We've gone and walked into an office party venue."
The look on Emma's face was priceless. Her classy night out had been hijacked by the guys and gals from Prontaprint. Fat Gordon was playing Abba by now, and backless dress girl was grinding her ample buttocks into Ken from Accounts' crotch. A gaggle of women were already gathered around one crying female outside the ladies' toilets - the first of many casualties. And our paper napkins were being blown off the table by the breeze caused by flapping bingo wings.
"This is fantastic," cried Murph, swinging his arms aloft to Hi Ho Silver Lining. "Let's stay here all night."
I agreed with him but others were keen to leave. We ended up in a trendy bar in the northern quarter. It was called Socio-Rehab, and sold cocktails which came with a Wham bar. There were no backless dresses - just faux vintage t-shirts with ironic slogans. There was no Neil Diamond - just gritty drum n bass. There was no synchronised arm-waving - although head-nodding was permitted, providing you didn't smile.
I didn't put up any resistance when Gem suggested hitting the road at about 12.30am. Nothing else was ever going to hold a candle to Stock.
I should have gone to bed when we got back to the Pool. Instead I went around to Jimmy's house and stayed up until 4.30am to watch the Hatton-Mayweather fight. Being sober meant this was the first late-night boxing match I've ever managed to stay awake for. I kinda wish I hadn't now, as it was sad to see Ricky looking so shell-shocked and humiliated after being royally pounded into the early hours.
No-one can ever really know how that feels. Although I reckon Ken from Accounts has a fairly good idea.
Saturday, 8 December 2007
Saturday December 8 - I wanna roll with it
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, seven days and 11 hours since my last drink.
23 DAYS AND 13 HOURS TIL I POP MY CORK!
I could have written on several serious themes today. Last night, for example, I attended the first of many Christmas drinks parties, courtesy of my old PA pal - and regular reader of this blog - Emma Gunby. I could have explored the socio-economic reasoning behind the office Christmas bash, the hidden dangers of drinking with colleagues, and the creeping sense of isolation felt by teetotallers around the festive period.
After a few drinks in town, I then met up with Gregg in the Penny Lane Wine Bar for our last ever Friday night out before he moves to Dubai. I could have described this momentous occasion and perhaps mused upon the role of alcohol in our long and fantastic friendship. I might even have described the Penny Lane Wine Bar as the beating heart of said friendship, with alcohol its very life blood and long nights around smoky tables its oxygen.
However, sometimes you just have to go with a story about poo.
Gregg, Gary and I had spent an enjoyable evening, first in the Penny Lane Wine Bar and then moving onto the little Tavern, on Allerton Road. I was drinking beer - non-alcoholic but at least it tastes like a Friday night should - and the banter was flying. Then, to our great pleasure, we were joined by Darren* and Ali, who had been to see Hard Fi in town. They'd already had a good few pints, and Darren saw off a good few more until the bar shut at midnight.
We were thinking about leaving when we noticed that Darren had been missing for quite some time. Gary then piped up that he may take a little longer yet, as he had just been using the urinal when he heard a lone voice from inside the cubicle: "Gaz, it's Darren. I've run out of bog roll."
It was a schoolboy error. He'd failed to do the basic three-point check which is mandatory before using any public lavatory: Seat, paper, lock. The Holy Trinity.
Gary imparted this information with a smirk on his face, and said he had told the barman of Darren's plight. Ali, looking understandably embarrassed at her husband's lack of toilet etiquette, demanded to know why Gary had not told her, so she could have retrieved some paper from the ladies. We could have hidden the shame within our group but Gary had blabbed to an outsider.
And a fairly thick outsider, by the sounds of it.
Darren eventually emerged after another five minutes or so, with a traumatic tale to tell.
He had sat patiently for a good while before the barman eventually waltzed into the toilet and announced: "Who is it that needs the toilet paper?"
"Take a wild guess," replied Darren, from inside the only cubicle in the whole room.
The barman then tried to ram an industrial sized roll of paper ("It wasn't even proper bog roll", Darren later wailed, "it was that blue stuff they use in hospitals to wipe up sick.") through the gap under the door, but it soon became obvious it wouldn't fit.
"It won't fit," said the barman. He was very quick on the uptake. "You'll have to open the door."
"I'm not really in a position to do that," replied an increasingly distressed Darren. "Can't you just roll some off and hand it to me?"
"Oh, come on," said the barman, who must have been on a customer service course to hone these sort of people skills, "I won't look."
So that's what happened. Darren opened the door. The barman didn't look. And I laughed so hard I nearly had to borrow some of that blue paper myself.
Sometimes it is worth staying sober to have a clear memory of these things. And, in Darren's case, sometimes it is better to blur the trauma with drink.
* Not his real name. His real name is Graham Devine.
23 DAYS AND 13 HOURS TIL I POP MY CORK!
I could have written on several serious themes today. Last night, for example, I attended the first of many Christmas drinks parties, courtesy of my old PA pal - and regular reader of this blog - Emma Gunby. I could have explored the socio-economic reasoning behind the office Christmas bash, the hidden dangers of drinking with colleagues, and the creeping sense of isolation felt by teetotallers around the festive period.
After a few drinks in town, I then met up with Gregg in the Penny Lane Wine Bar for our last ever Friday night out before he moves to Dubai. I could have described this momentous occasion and perhaps mused upon the role of alcohol in our long and fantastic friendship. I might even have described the Penny Lane Wine Bar as the beating heart of said friendship, with alcohol its very life blood and long nights around smoky tables its oxygen.
However, sometimes you just have to go with a story about poo.
Gregg, Gary and I had spent an enjoyable evening, first in the Penny Lane Wine Bar and then moving onto the little Tavern, on Allerton Road. I was drinking beer - non-alcoholic but at least it tastes like a Friday night should - and the banter was flying. Then, to our great pleasure, we were joined by Darren* and Ali, who had been to see Hard Fi in town. They'd already had a good few pints, and Darren saw off a good few more until the bar shut at midnight.
We were thinking about leaving when we noticed that Darren had been missing for quite some time. Gary then piped up that he may take a little longer yet, as he had just been using the urinal when he heard a lone voice from inside the cubicle: "Gaz, it's Darren. I've run out of bog roll."
It was a schoolboy error. He'd failed to do the basic three-point check which is mandatory before using any public lavatory: Seat, paper, lock. The Holy Trinity.
Gary imparted this information with a smirk on his face, and said he had told the barman of Darren's plight. Ali, looking understandably embarrassed at her husband's lack of toilet etiquette, demanded to know why Gary had not told her, so she could have retrieved some paper from the ladies. We could have hidden the shame within our group but Gary had blabbed to an outsider.
And a fairly thick outsider, by the sounds of it.
Darren eventually emerged after another five minutes or so, with a traumatic tale to tell.
He had sat patiently for a good while before the barman eventually waltzed into the toilet and announced: "Who is it that needs the toilet paper?"
"Take a wild guess," replied Darren, from inside the only cubicle in the whole room.
The barman then tried to ram an industrial sized roll of paper ("It wasn't even proper bog roll", Darren later wailed, "it was that blue stuff they use in hospitals to wipe up sick.") through the gap under the door, but it soon became obvious it wouldn't fit.
"It won't fit," said the barman. He was very quick on the uptake. "You'll have to open the door."
"I'm not really in a position to do that," replied an increasingly distressed Darren. "Can't you just roll some off and hand it to me?"
"Oh, come on," said the barman, who must have been on a customer service course to hone these sort of people skills, "I won't look."
So that's what happened. Darren opened the door. The barman didn't look. And I laughed so hard I nearly had to borrow some of that blue paper myself.
Sometimes it is worth staying sober to have a clear memory of these things. And, in Darren's case, sometimes it is better to blur the trauma with drink.
* Not his real name. His real name is Graham Devine.
Thursday, 6 December 2007
Thursday December 6 - Blast From The Past
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, five days and 21 hours since my last drink.
25 DAYS AND THREE HOURS TIL BLAST OFF!
These December days seem to be flying by - which is great if you're looking forward to drinking alcohol again on December 31 but not so great if you're launching a brand new all-speech radio station on January 28.
I did think that this final stretch of my booze-free journey could possibly send me a little bit loopy. Like the prisoner-of-war who, after months of planning the perfect escape, makes a suicidal dash when he gets to within 50 feet of the barbed wire perimeter fence. Or the nightclub lothario who bides his time all night and then lunges for the fat lass at five to two.
But so far, the opposite has been true. December has brought with it a zen-like calm. I feel so delighted to be within spitting distance of the finish post that I don't even care about having to stay sober.
My first real drinking pang - and it was only a minor one - came today. My old pal Gary Quinn was up in Liverpool, as he is joining City Talk in January. We used to work together at Mercury Press, which was my first proper job after leaving uni. If there was ever a golden period in my long and illustrious drinking career, it was around that time. Yes, I drank loads as a student - who doesn't? - but alcohol tastes so much sweeter when it follows a week of hard graft. Seeing GQ reminded me of long hazy nights in the Cross Keys or the Jacaranda. Not just weekends, mind you, but school nights as well. Drowning that day's traumatic events (and there were plenty of those at Mercury) and then rolling in for some more the following day with bleary eyes and Guinness breath. Ah, happy days.
Picking our way through the rain-soaked late-night Christmas shoppers, it would have felt just right to have dived into a city centre boozer with Gary to carry on where we left off in around 2003. But we didn't. Cos I don't drink and he had to go and check out some suitable accommodation for him and his pregnant wife then catch a
late train back to a grown-up job in London.
Toute ca change, Rodders. Toute ca change.
25 DAYS AND THREE HOURS TIL BLAST OFF!
These December days seem to be flying by - which is great if you're looking forward to drinking alcohol again on December 31 but not so great if you're launching a brand new all-speech radio station on January 28.
I did think that this final stretch of my booze-free journey could possibly send me a little bit loopy. Like the prisoner-of-war who, after months of planning the perfect escape, makes a suicidal dash when he gets to within 50 feet of the barbed wire perimeter fence. Or the nightclub lothario who bides his time all night and then lunges for the fat lass at five to two.
But so far, the opposite has been true. December has brought with it a zen-like calm. I feel so delighted to be within spitting distance of the finish post that I don't even care about having to stay sober.
My first real drinking pang - and it was only a minor one - came today. My old pal Gary Quinn was up in Liverpool, as he is joining City Talk in January. We used to work together at Mercury Press, which was my first proper job after leaving uni. If there was ever a golden period in my long and illustrious drinking career, it was around that time. Yes, I drank loads as a student - who doesn't? - but alcohol tastes so much sweeter when it follows a week of hard graft. Seeing GQ reminded me of long hazy nights in the Cross Keys or the Jacaranda. Not just weekends, mind you, but school nights as well. Drowning that day's traumatic events (and there were plenty of those at Mercury) and then rolling in for some more the following day with bleary eyes and Guinness breath. Ah, happy days.
Picking our way through the rain-soaked late-night Christmas shoppers, it would have felt just right to have dived into a city centre boozer with Gary to carry on where we left off in around 2003. But we didn't. Cos I don't drink and he had to go and check out some suitable accommodation for him and his pregnant wife then catch a
late train back to a grown-up job in London.
Toute ca change, Rodders. Toute ca change.
Wednesday, 5 December 2007
Wednesday December 5 - Namedropper
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, four days and 21 hours since my last drink.
26 DAYS AND THREE HOURS TO GO!
I don't like to drop names but I told Simon O'Brien (Damon Grant) about this blog today and he was quite literally struck dumb.
So long, losers. Looks like I've finally made it.
26 DAYS AND THREE HOURS TO GO!
I don't like to drop names but I told Simon O'Brien (Damon Grant) about this blog today and he was quite literally struck dumb.
So long, losers. Looks like I've finally made it.
Tuesday, 4 December 2007
Tuesday December 4 -
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, three days and 19 hours since my last drink.
27 DAYS AND FIVE HOURS TO GO.
The third question people always ask me when I tell them about this project (after Really? The whole year? and Why?) is Have you lost any weight?
I was planning to keep track of my weight in each blog entry, a la Bridget Jones. Then again, I was planning lots of things that never quite materialised.
Still, at least it means I can do the big reveal right now.
Pre-breakfast weight on January 1: 15 stones, two ounces.
Pre-breakfast weight on December 3: 13 stones, 9 ounces.
That's a loss of one and a half stone, with no exercise and no special diet. Not bad.
So there you have it. The secret to losing weight without going on a diet or exercising: simply give up fun for a year.
27 DAYS AND FIVE HOURS TO GO.
The third question people always ask me when I tell them about this project (after Really? The whole year? and Why?) is Have you lost any weight?
I was planning to keep track of my weight in each blog entry, a la Bridget Jones. Then again, I was planning lots of things that never quite materialised.
Still, at least it means I can do the big reveal right now.
Pre-breakfast weight on January 1: 15 stones, two ounces.
Pre-breakfast weight on December 3: 13 stones, 9 ounces.
That's a loss of one and a half stone, with no exercise and no special diet. Not bad.
So there you have it. The secret to losing weight without going on a diet or exercising: simply give up fun for a year.
Monday, 3 December 2007
Monday December 3 - Addict?
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, two days and 20 hours since my last drink.
28 DAYS, THREE HOURS AND 25 MINUTES LEFT...
I'm in surprisingly good spirits now, and feel almost certain that I'll finish the year without touching any booze.
I have proven that I can endure most social functions without resorting to alcohol, and I have surprised many - myself included - with my willpower.
However, the only reason I am happy this month is because the end is in sight. The thought of a lifetime without alcohol brigs me out in a cold sweat.
So, despite all I have proved, does that mean I'm still an addict?
28 DAYS, THREE HOURS AND 25 MINUTES LEFT...
I'm in surprisingly good spirits now, and feel almost certain that I'll finish the year without touching any booze.
I have proven that I can endure most social functions without resorting to alcohol, and I have surprised many - myself included - with my willpower.
However, the only reason I am happy this month is because the end is in sight. The thought of a lifetime without alcohol brigs me out in a cold sweat.
So, despite all I have proved, does that mean I'm still an addict?
Sunday, 2 December 2007
Sunday December 2 - The Taste of Victory
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, one day and 20 hours since my last drink. 30 DAYS TIL B-DAY.
Thought for the day: What if I have to re-learn to love the taste of booze?
Remember what it was like when you were a kid, and you had to pretend to like the taste of beer? Yes, when you were eight or so, it was fine to screw up your face in disgust after sipping your dad's pint.
But by the time you hit double figures it was necessary to affect a certain nonchalance about alcohol. Perhaps even feign enjoyment and pass a knowledgeable comment, along the lines of "Mmmm, that's a good drop." This was difficult, because the sort of booze you have access to as a kid is not usually the best, nor is it usually served in the optimum conditions.
Skandia Green lager, for example, was unlikely to win any CAMRA awards even if it was served in a frosted goblet by a Swedish beauty queen. Necking it on the top deck of a number 37 bus, at body temperature after you stuck the can in your pocket to get it past the driver, was hardly going to improve the flavour.
But, hey, you swigged it down and - slowly - acquired the taste.
Spirits were even worse. The vapours hit the back of your throat before you'd even touched the stuff. Then came the acrid taste, the burning throat and the Mutley-style wheezing. So you learned your lesson and mixed it with Coke or orange juice until, after a few years, you start to wonder what this stuff tastes like without the masking agent. And you discover it's pretty damned good, particularly as you can now afford the good stuff.
I put a lot of work into acquiring my taste for alcohol, but what if I've lost this year?
I'm not sure I can go through it all again. I'm too old to learn.
I'll just have to inject the stuff.
Thought for the day: What if I have to re-learn to love the taste of booze?
Remember what it was like when you were a kid, and you had to pretend to like the taste of beer? Yes, when you were eight or so, it was fine to screw up your face in disgust after sipping your dad's pint.
But by the time you hit double figures it was necessary to affect a certain nonchalance about alcohol. Perhaps even feign enjoyment and pass a knowledgeable comment, along the lines of "Mmmm, that's a good drop." This was difficult, because the sort of booze you have access to as a kid is not usually the best, nor is it usually served in the optimum conditions.
Skandia Green lager, for example, was unlikely to win any CAMRA awards even if it was served in a frosted goblet by a Swedish beauty queen. Necking it on the top deck of a number 37 bus, at body temperature after you stuck the can in your pocket to get it past the driver, was hardly going to improve the flavour.
But, hey, you swigged it down and - slowly - acquired the taste.
Spirits were even worse. The vapours hit the back of your throat before you'd even touched the stuff. Then came the acrid taste, the burning throat and the Mutley-style wheezing. So you learned your lesson and mixed it with Coke or orange juice until, after a few years, you start to wonder what this stuff tastes like without the masking agent. And you discover it's pretty damned good, particularly as you can now afford the good stuff.
I put a lot of work into acquiring my taste for alcohol, but what if I've lost this year?
I'm not sure I can go through it all again. I'm too old to learn.
I'll just have to inject the stuff.
Saturday, 1 December 2007
Saturday December 1 - The Finish Line In Sight (but I'll have to walk to it).
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months and ten hours since my last drink. ONLY 31 DAYS TIL B-DAY.
I had a rude awakening this morning, and not in a good way.
One of the original plans for this booze-free year was to get fit. I've never been a Sport Billy, but even in my drinking days (ie, any time after the age of 15) I would do just enough to keep the wolf of morbid obesity from my door.
After a heavy Friday night, I would regularly haul myself out of bed on Saturday mornings and jog around Sefton Park, sometimes even finishing with a Guinness fart-fuelled sprint.
Other times I would leave trails of purest Sambuca sweat on a Picton squash court, or pound the cross-trainer at LA Fitness until I had burned off the calorific equivalent of ten pints of Kronenburg and a Saffron special. Occasionally I might cycle along the Mersey until my deathly grey hangover pallor was replaced by a ruddy-cheeked nausea.
This year, I've done diddly squat. That's not a special type of squat thrust. I just mean I've done nothing. Nada. Zilch. Nowt.
I could give excuses as to why that might be - the change of jobs, increasing work load, golf (which is not proper exercise in any way).
But the real reason, if I'm being honest, is that my non-drinking has armoured me with a sense of smug self-righteousness.
Why should I exercise when I am already sacrificing so much?
Why bother exercising when all I drank last night was orange juice and soda?
Exercise is for the weak and sinful. I am pure of soul, so I must be pure of body!
So when I awoke to a crisp winter morning today I decided to pull on my trainers and Ron Hills (calm yourself, ladies)and jog around Sefton Park. Not for the exercise, you understand, but for the pure joy of it. Breathing the cold air deep into my lungs, hearing the rhythm of rubber sole on pavement, splattering the dog-walkers and asthmatic fun-runners with mulchy puddle spray as I raced joyously past them.
Yeah, that didn't happen.
Instead I was in agony after about ten minutes. My thighs burned, my chest pounded and I was desperately trying to clear my airways of the type of gooey spit I haven't experienced since I was a tubby schoolboy. The stuff is like ektoplasm - you try to spit it out and it stays attached to your tongue via a two-foot trail, swinging round and hitting the back of your head.
After fifteen minutes I had to stop and walk for a bit, casting my eyes to the ground in shame whenever a sprightly jogger ran past in the opposite direction. Suddenly, my bright yellow Asics running trainers and Ron Hills were a source of shame. At least most unfit people have the decency to waddle around the park in pair of Converse baseball boots and combat shorts. There was me with all the gear and no idea.
I got round, door to door, in 39 minutes and 47 seconds. I used to do it in under 30 minutes in my boozy days. Ouch. A valuable lesson has been learned. Sobriety, for all its virtues, does not keep you fit.
Anyway, the good news is that it's now December. The booziest month of the calendar, for sure, but also the last one. In less than 31 days, I will have completed my mission, and that's a great feeling.
To celebrate the end being in sight, I plan to update this blog daily until the end of December with a morsel of wisdom or question about boozing/sobriety. Think of it like an Advent calendar, but without the chocolate or the picture of baby Jesus in the manger.
Today's offering is this. How close a friend do you have to be before you help a drunk girl on a work night out? I only ask because I went to the Radio City Local Heroes awards on Thursday night, and onto the after-show party at Mosquito. Then to the after-after-show party in a Chinese karaoke bar beneath the Shangri La restaurant. (Well, it's nice to do your bit for charity.)
I knew one of the girls in our party by face but not by name. At 3.30am, I discovered her name was Jenny. As in "Oh look, Jenny's got her head on the table and she's puked on the floor." Thankfully, at that point, she was being attended to by two other girls, so I left them to it. I did feel a tad sorry for the two blokes on the same table who were trying to enjoy their meal but, hey, if you can't stand the puke, get out of the late-night karaoke bar.
Anyway, all was fine until about five minutes later when Jenny, who was now alone at the table (apart from the two aforementioned gents and their largely untouched spring rolls) decided to stand up. She lurched towards me with the unmistakeable face of a girl about to chunder once more. I was wearing a rather fine shirt and my favourite jacket, not to mention newly-purchased shoes of the softest brown leather.
Reader, it shames me to admit that instead of catching the lurching female, I stood aside. Alas, she turned on her heel and seemed to lurch at me again. Once more I sidestepped the danger. For a third time, her face now ashen (and for this I must take a share of the blame - it was not the right time to be making her dizzy), she came at me. This time, with all the skill of a matador, I stood in front of a chair and dived at the last second, allowing her to fall back into a sitting position. Thankfully, the cavalry teetered back on their heels and I was able to escape the immediate danger area.
But afterwards I was touched by guilt. As a sober and responsible adult, should I have done more to help? Should I have held her in my arms at the first lunge, and risked a torrent of sick down my back? Should I have insisted she be put into a Hackney cab and handed the driver a crisp £20 note from my own wallet? Or, as little more than a nodding aquaintance, was I right to absolve myself of responsibility as quickly as possible?
Discuss.
I had a rude awakening this morning, and not in a good way.
One of the original plans for this booze-free year was to get fit. I've never been a Sport Billy, but even in my drinking days (ie, any time after the age of 15) I would do just enough to keep the wolf of morbid obesity from my door.
After a heavy Friday night, I would regularly haul myself out of bed on Saturday mornings and jog around Sefton Park, sometimes even finishing with a Guinness fart-fuelled sprint.
Other times I would leave trails of purest Sambuca sweat on a Picton squash court, or pound the cross-trainer at LA Fitness until I had burned off the calorific equivalent of ten pints of Kronenburg and a Saffron special. Occasionally I might cycle along the Mersey until my deathly grey hangover pallor was replaced by a ruddy-cheeked nausea.
This year, I've done diddly squat. That's not a special type of squat thrust. I just mean I've done nothing. Nada. Zilch. Nowt.
I could give excuses as to why that might be - the change of jobs, increasing work load, golf (which is not proper exercise in any way).
But the real reason, if I'm being honest, is that my non-drinking has armoured me with a sense of smug self-righteousness.
Why should I exercise when I am already sacrificing so much?
Why bother exercising when all I drank last night was orange juice and soda?
Exercise is for the weak and sinful. I am pure of soul, so I must be pure of body!
So when I awoke to a crisp winter morning today I decided to pull on my trainers and Ron Hills (calm yourself, ladies)and jog around Sefton Park. Not for the exercise, you understand, but for the pure joy of it. Breathing the cold air deep into my lungs, hearing the rhythm of rubber sole on pavement, splattering the dog-walkers and asthmatic fun-runners with mulchy puddle spray as I raced joyously past them.
Yeah, that didn't happen.
Instead I was in agony after about ten minutes. My thighs burned, my chest pounded and I was desperately trying to clear my airways of the type of gooey spit I haven't experienced since I was a tubby schoolboy. The stuff is like ektoplasm - you try to spit it out and it stays attached to your tongue via a two-foot trail, swinging round and hitting the back of your head.
After fifteen minutes I had to stop and walk for a bit, casting my eyes to the ground in shame whenever a sprightly jogger ran past in the opposite direction. Suddenly, my bright yellow Asics running trainers and Ron Hills were a source of shame. At least most unfit people have the decency to waddle around the park in pair of Converse baseball boots and combat shorts. There was me with all the gear and no idea.
I got round, door to door, in 39 minutes and 47 seconds. I used to do it in under 30 minutes in my boozy days. Ouch. A valuable lesson has been learned. Sobriety, for all its virtues, does not keep you fit.
Anyway, the good news is that it's now December. The booziest month of the calendar, for sure, but also the last one. In less than 31 days, I will have completed my mission, and that's a great feeling.
To celebrate the end being in sight, I plan to update this blog daily until the end of December with a morsel of wisdom or question about boozing/sobriety. Think of it like an Advent calendar, but without the chocolate or the picture of baby Jesus in the manger.
Today's offering is this. How close a friend do you have to be before you help a drunk girl on a work night out? I only ask because I went to the Radio City Local Heroes awards on Thursday night, and onto the after-show party at Mosquito. Then to the after-after-show party in a Chinese karaoke bar beneath the Shangri La restaurant. (Well, it's nice to do your bit for charity.)
I knew one of the girls in our party by face but not by name. At 3.30am, I discovered her name was Jenny. As in "Oh look, Jenny's got her head on the table and she's puked on the floor." Thankfully, at that point, she was being attended to by two other girls, so I left them to it. I did feel a tad sorry for the two blokes on the same table who were trying to enjoy their meal but, hey, if you can't stand the puke, get out of the late-night karaoke bar.
Anyway, all was fine until about five minutes later when Jenny, who was now alone at the table (apart from the two aforementioned gents and their largely untouched spring rolls) decided to stand up. She lurched towards me with the unmistakeable face of a girl about to chunder once more. I was wearing a rather fine shirt and my favourite jacket, not to mention newly-purchased shoes of the softest brown leather.
Reader, it shames me to admit that instead of catching the lurching female, I stood aside. Alas, she turned on her heel and seemed to lurch at me again. Once more I sidestepped the danger. For a third time, her face now ashen (and for this I must take a share of the blame - it was not the right time to be making her dizzy), she came at me. This time, with all the skill of a matador, I stood in front of a chair and dived at the last second, allowing her to fall back into a sitting position. Thankfully, the cavalry teetered back on their heels and I was able to escape the immediate danger area.
But afterwards I was touched by guilt. As a sober and responsible adult, should I have done more to help? Should I have held her in my arms at the first lunge, and risked a torrent of sick down my back? Should I have insisted she be put into a Hackney cab and handed the driver a crisp £20 note from my own wallet? Or, as little more than a nodding aquaintance, was I right to absolve myself of responsibility as quickly as possible?
Discuss.
Monday, 26 November 2007
Monday November 26 - Booze, booze, everywhere - but not a drop to drink
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been ten months, 25 days and 20 hours since my last drink.
So, it turns out there is such a thing as a free lunch. Particularly when you work for a spanking new radio station. And, of course, all those free lunches come with lashings of free booze - none of which I've been able to drink.
God I'm an idiot. Why do I have to make life so hard for myself?
My first lost opportunity was on Wednesday night. My friends Kate and Andy have started a posh handbag shop in Liverpool city centre, and they kindly invited me to the grand opening. It was a pretty glam do, complete with a WAG (Abi Clancy), a page three stunna (Katie Downes) and a drooling pervert (hi fans!).
Naturally, it also came complete with free-flowing champagne all night. I had an orange juice, which was very nice and all that but it hardly gave me the necessary fortification to have a crack at La Clancy while her lanky fella was busy losing to Croatia. She clearly wanted to approach me, the poor girl, but it was hard with Mrs Batch keeping a watchful eye over her prize beau (moi).
The next missed chance was on Friday night, when most of the CityTalk staff ended up on the guest list for the re-opening of the refurbished Living Room, in Liverpool city centre. I couldn't tell the difference, to be honest. One coat of magnolia paint looks much like the other to me, but it was still a great freebie. Proper cocktails, wine and beer was all on tap for the night. I had another orange juice, and tried to ride the vitamin C rush.
And then on Sunday I was invited to a racing day at Aintree by my journo-turned-PR pals Jon and Jane. Free entry, free lunch and - yet again - apparently unlimited bottles of beer and wine, all at the expense of some kindly, faceless corporation. I had a sparkling mineral water. Mmmmmm, refreshing. I then lost on all but one of the six races, having miraculously been placed on a table with the only two Irishmen at Aintree who knew absolutely bugger-all about horses. Red faces? Yes. Tweed jackets? You betcha. But could they produce a decent tip between them? Could they feck.
Now, I've been to a few corporate days at the races, and lost at all of them. But in the past I've always consoled myself by necking as much free booze as possible to offset the gambling deficit. That was obviously not an option yesterday, although I did manage to make a serious dent in that bottle of Highland Spring. If I could have polished off another couple of crates, I might have broken even. But I'd have wet myself on the Merseyrail train from around Kirkdale to Moorfields.
Oh well. Less than 40 days and 40 nights to go now until I can drink again. That's less than Jesus did in the desert. Then again, He didn't have a pair of comp tickets to the Radio City Local Heros Awards on Thursday night, complete with entry to the aftershow party at Mosquito. If that wouldn't have flushed Him out of the desert and into His gladrobes for the night, I don't know what would.
So, it turns out there is such a thing as a free lunch. Particularly when you work for a spanking new radio station. And, of course, all those free lunches come with lashings of free booze - none of which I've been able to drink.
God I'm an idiot. Why do I have to make life so hard for myself?
My first lost opportunity was on Wednesday night. My friends Kate and Andy have started a posh handbag shop in Liverpool city centre, and they kindly invited me to the grand opening. It was a pretty glam do, complete with a WAG (Abi Clancy), a page three stunna (Katie Downes) and a drooling pervert (hi fans!).
Naturally, it also came complete with free-flowing champagne all night. I had an orange juice, which was very nice and all that but it hardly gave me the necessary fortification to have a crack at La Clancy while her lanky fella was busy losing to Croatia. She clearly wanted to approach me, the poor girl, but it was hard with Mrs Batch keeping a watchful eye over her prize beau (moi).
The next missed chance was on Friday night, when most of the CityTalk staff ended up on the guest list for the re-opening of the refurbished Living Room, in Liverpool city centre. I couldn't tell the difference, to be honest. One coat of magnolia paint looks much like the other to me, but it was still a great freebie. Proper cocktails, wine and beer was all on tap for the night. I had another orange juice, and tried to ride the vitamin C rush.
And then on Sunday I was invited to a racing day at Aintree by my journo-turned-PR pals Jon and Jane. Free entry, free lunch and - yet again - apparently unlimited bottles of beer and wine, all at the expense of some kindly, faceless corporation. I had a sparkling mineral water. Mmmmmm, refreshing. I then lost on all but one of the six races, having miraculously been placed on a table with the only two Irishmen at Aintree who knew absolutely bugger-all about horses. Red faces? Yes. Tweed jackets? You betcha. But could they produce a decent tip between them? Could they feck.
Now, I've been to a few corporate days at the races, and lost at all of them. But in the past I've always consoled myself by necking as much free booze as possible to offset the gambling deficit. That was obviously not an option yesterday, although I did manage to make a serious dent in that bottle of Highland Spring. If I could have polished off another couple of crates, I might have broken even. But I'd have wet myself on the Merseyrail train from around Kirkdale to Moorfields.
Oh well. Less than 40 days and 40 nights to go now until I can drink again. That's less than Jesus did in the desert. Then again, He didn't have a pair of comp tickets to the Radio City Local Heros Awards on Thursday night, complete with entry to the aftershow party at Mosquito. If that wouldn't have flushed Him out of the desert and into His gladrobes for the night, I don't know what would.
Saturday, 10 November 2007
Saturday November 10 - Bailey-Belching Back Door Burglars
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 10 months, nine days and seven hours since my last drink.
Perhaps it was my fault for tempting fate. I did say that I wanted to experience all of life's rich tapestry without the comforting crutch of booze. But what I had in mind was all the fun stuff, mainly. Weddings, stag nights, birthdays, leaving do's - perhaps the occasional bull-running or tomato festival - that sort of thing.
Not coming home on a Friday night to find that some horrible little shits had smashed through my back door - a full-size pane of toughened double glazing, mind you - and ransacked the house before nicking my iPod, camcorder, digital cameras and collection of priceless Ming vases (better put that, in case I decide to get creative with the insurance claim).
Not only that, but they had trod mud through the house and even - quelle horreur - yanked the living room curtains shut without using the pulley chord, meaning most of the hooks have snapped off the rail. Some people have no manners.
To be honest, it could have been a lot worse. They didn't indulge in any gratuitous vandalism. They didn't clean us out. They even managed to resist following that fine burglars' tradition of shitting on the soft furnishings.
It was, however, a very unpleasant experience - particularly for Gemma, who was first home and was understandably scared that the intruders could still be in the house.
I had planned to stay in town after work for a big night out with the CityTalk and Radio City mob, but was barely halfway into my first refreshing cola when Gem called to break the bad news.
It wasn't that I particularly wanted a drink when I got home, but the situation cried out for me to pour myself a hefty slug of strong liquor. Why else do we keep bottles of revolting whiskey in the house apart from occasions such as these? I don't feel that I cut the right dash by striding manfully into the kitchen and necking a beaker of Robinsons Fruit & Barley. I did make it a strong one, though.
Bizarrely enough, I probably couldn't have touched the booze shelf even if I had wanted to. Why? Evidential reasons. One of the intruders had grabbed a bottle off the shelf and placed it on the dining room table, presumably intending to take it with him, or possibly to enjoy a quick slurp there and then - rifling through other people's possessions can be thirsty work, y'know, and even scumbag burglars need to take a break.
Anyway, of all the bottles he could have picked - champagne, whiskey, vodka, gin, rum - guess which one he went for?
Baileys Irish Cream.
Yup, the beverage of choice for today's hardened criminal is effectively a mildly alcoholic milkshake invented to keep granny quiet on Christmas Day. It looks (and quite probably tastes) like a priest's jizz, and has less kick than Heather Mills-McCartney.
I thought burglars spent their ill-gotten gains on smack? If the fuzz want to catch this one they'd be better off staking out HMV and looking for the scally buying a stack of Shirley Bassey CDs.
Oh, and before Mr Anonymous makes another of his witty comments, we keep the Baileys in the house for guests. (Oh, alright then, I do like a dash in my coffee de temps en temps.)
The rest of my non-boozing week pales into insignificance by comparison, but I'll note it for the record, as it's been a social whirlwind
Last Friday. Went to Lief and then the Richmond Tavern with the usual crowd, plus Gregg's father-in-law, who's a lovely man but calls everyone "Shag" for some reason. I think it's a Welsh thing. Anyway, they got pissed and I didn't.
Saturday. Went to a fancy dress and fireworks party at a friend's house in Allerton. As usual, felt a little bit fed up to be drinking non-alcoholic beer while everyone else got stuck into the proper stuff. Was slightly cheered, however, when my unimpaired reflexes enabled me to jump from the path of a misfired rocket which appeared to be heading straight for my groin.
Monday. Went to a proper fireworks display in Sefton Park with Gem, Jim, Tam, Hannah and baby Alan. A fantastic display, but one which would have been improved with a hip flask of whiskey (outdoor events and post-trauma are really the only times this drink should be taken neat).
Tuesday. Met Duncan, the presenter who I'll be producing on CityTalk. Took him to the bright lights of Lark Lane for a mini-pub crawl and curry. He respects my teetotalitarianism but I suspect he's looking forward to me coming to my sense in January - particularly as he mentioned on more than one occasion that our working day should "finish with a few beers at around 3pm". Ulp - I can see my good work being undone fast next year.
Wednesday. Out with Gem, Gregg and Graham in Penny Lane Wine Bar. Had a heated debate about migrant workers in Dubai. As you do.
Friday. Planned to have a few drinks in town before going to a lecture by Phil Redmond. Had to cancel and rush home due to the burglary. Every cloud...
Today and tomorrow. Off to Brum later for a family party at Gem's followed by the Blues-Villa derby on Sunday.
Unless, of course, you happen to be a burglar planning to come back for the rest of that Baileys. In which case, I'll be spending the next 48-hours sitting by the back door with just a loaded shotgun and Tony Martin's autobiography for company.
Oh well, at least they didn't take the computer. Stealing this blog from humanity - now that would be unforgivable.
Perhaps it was my fault for tempting fate. I did say that I wanted to experience all of life's rich tapestry without the comforting crutch of booze. But what I had in mind was all the fun stuff, mainly. Weddings, stag nights, birthdays, leaving do's - perhaps the occasional bull-running or tomato festival - that sort of thing.
Not coming home on a Friday night to find that some horrible little shits had smashed through my back door - a full-size pane of toughened double glazing, mind you - and ransacked the house before nicking my iPod, camcorder, digital cameras and collection of priceless Ming vases (better put that, in case I decide to get creative with the insurance claim).
Not only that, but they had trod mud through the house and even - quelle horreur - yanked the living room curtains shut without using the pulley chord, meaning most of the hooks have snapped off the rail. Some people have no manners.
To be honest, it could have been a lot worse. They didn't indulge in any gratuitous vandalism. They didn't clean us out. They even managed to resist following that fine burglars' tradition of shitting on the soft furnishings.
It was, however, a very unpleasant experience - particularly for Gemma, who was first home and was understandably scared that the intruders could still be in the house.
I had planned to stay in town after work for a big night out with the CityTalk and Radio City mob, but was barely halfway into my first refreshing cola when Gem called to break the bad news.
It wasn't that I particularly wanted a drink when I got home, but the situation cried out for me to pour myself a hefty slug of strong liquor. Why else do we keep bottles of revolting whiskey in the house apart from occasions such as these? I don't feel that I cut the right dash by striding manfully into the kitchen and necking a beaker of Robinsons Fruit & Barley. I did make it a strong one, though.
Bizarrely enough, I probably couldn't have touched the booze shelf even if I had wanted to. Why? Evidential reasons. One of the intruders had grabbed a bottle off the shelf and placed it on the dining room table, presumably intending to take it with him, or possibly to enjoy a quick slurp there and then - rifling through other people's possessions can be thirsty work, y'know, and even scumbag burglars need to take a break.
Anyway, of all the bottles he could have picked - champagne, whiskey, vodka, gin, rum - guess which one he went for?
Baileys Irish Cream.
Yup, the beverage of choice for today's hardened criminal is effectively a mildly alcoholic milkshake invented to keep granny quiet on Christmas Day. It looks (and quite probably tastes) like a priest's jizz, and has less kick than Heather Mills-McCartney.
I thought burglars spent their ill-gotten gains on smack? If the fuzz want to catch this one they'd be better off staking out HMV and looking for the scally buying a stack of Shirley Bassey CDs.
Oh, and before Mr Anonymous makes another of his witty comments, we keep the Baileys in the house for guests. (Oh, alright then, I do like a dash in my coffee de temps en temps.)
The rest of my non-boozing week pales into insignificance by comparison, but I'll note it for the record, as it's been a social whirlwind
Last Friday. Went to Lief and then the Richmond Tavern with the usual crowd, plus Gregg's father-in-law, who's a lovely man but calls everyone "Shag" for some reason. I think it's a Welsh thing. Anyway, they got pissed and I didn't.
Saturday. Went to a fancy dress and fireworks party at a friend's house in Allerton. As usual, felt a little bit fed up to be drinking non-alcoholic beer while everyone else got stuck into the proper stuff. Was slightly cheered, however, when my unimpaired reflexes enabled me to jump from the path of a misfired rocket which appeared to be heading straight for my groin.
Monday. Went to a proper fireworks display in Sefton Park with Gem, Jim, Tam, Hannah and baby Alan. A fantastic display, but one which would have been improved with a hip flask of whiskey (outdoor events and post-trauma are really the only times this drink should be taken neat).
Tuesday. Met Duncan, the presenter who I'll be producing on CityTalk. Took him to the bright lights of Lark Lane for a mini-pub crawl and curry. He respects my teetotalitarianism but I suspect he's looking forward to me coming to my sense in January - particularly as he mentioned on more than one occasion that our working day should "finish with a few beers at around 3pm". Ulp - I can see my good work being undone fast next year.
Wednesday. Out with Gem, Gregg and Graham in Penny Lane Wine Bar. Had a heated debate about migrant workers in Dubai. As you do.
Friday. Planned to have a few drinks in town before going to a lecture by Phil Redmond. Had to cancel and rush home due to the burglary. Every cloud...
Today and tomorrow. Off to Brum later for a family party at Gem's followed by the Blues-Villa derby on Sunday.
Unless, of course, you happen to be a burglar planning to come back for the rest of that Baileys. In which case, I'll be spending the next 48-hours sitting by the back door with just a loaded shotgun and Tony Martin's autobiography for company.
Oh well, at least they didn't take the computer. Stealing this blog from humanity - now that would be unforgivable.
Thursday, 1 November 2007
Thursday November 1 - Are you there God? It's me, Will.
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been ten months and 17 hours since my last drink.
Well, the good news is that I'm still on the wagon. The bad news is that - as regular readers may have noticed - I appear to have lost all will to update this blog.
Originally, I thought I'd need the blog to help me get through this alcohol-free year. People like me (show offs) can't just do things with quiet dignity - we need regular pats on the head from an adoring public.
However, as it turns out, writing about my sobriety has become more of a chore than staying off the booze in the first place. The irony is not lost on me. In fact, I'm considering emailing Alanis Morisette.
It's not even like I haven't had things to write about. Life has been pretty exciting, as it goes. There's the new job, for starters, which I'm loving. Then there was the rugby world cup final, which very nearly drove me to drink (not the result - I didn't care about that - but the fact that I watched it in a pub down south where the drinkers actually sang the national anthem . Weird, eh? I nearly had a brandy to quell the shock.
Then there has been the power of the internet. Within just seven days, I had two separate nights out with two old school friends who emailed me out of the blue following a ten-year silence. (Adam Searle and Catherine Kitson, fact fans).
Then there has been the usual relentless cycle of boozy nights in and nights out with my south Liverpool band of brothers.
All of these events were potential blog fodder but, frankly, I just couldn't be arsed.
So what has prompted this brief flurry of activity? Well, at the risk of attaching slightly more importance to this project thank is justified, I think God has yet again stuck his oar in.
Remember back in September, when I was on the verge of quitting, and within minutes God had arranged for a bottle of champagne to be delivered to my front door (I interpreted this as a positive and encouraging sign)?
Well, to shake me from my blog stupor, He has hit me with a triple whammy today.
First off, it's November 1, and the passing of another month always gives a boost.
Secondly, I arrived in work to find not one but two emails from well-wishers, asking if I had finally caved in. Well, I say well-wishers, but it was Chris Fellows and Ben Banyard, possibly just inquiring in the hope that I might actually be more fun over the festive season.
Thirdly, I was called by a woman who has written a book called Beat The Booze, which is being released in January next year. Like me, she was a social drinker who went teetotal when she became sick of the booze merrirgoround. She had no idea I was a fellow teetotaller, and was ringing in a professional capacity. However, I lost no time in telling her about my blog (told you I was a show off), so thought I'd better update just in case she actually reads it. It's a keeping up with the Jones thing, you understand.
Anyway, thanks God. Do me a favour and give me a nudge in December, cos I can feel myself getting bored again.
Well, the good news is that I'm still on the wagon. The bad news is that - as regular readers may have noticed - I appear to have lost all will to update this blog.
Originally, I thought I'd need the blog to help me get through this alcohol-free year. People like me (show offs) can't just do things with quiet dignity - we need regular pats on the head from an adoring public.
However, as it turns out, writing about my sobriety has become more of a chore than staying off the booze in the first place. The irony is not lost on me. In fact, I'm considering emailing Alanis Morisette.
It's not even like I haven't had things to write about. Life has been pretty exciting, as it goes. There's the new job, for starters, which I'm loving. Then there was the rugby world cup final, which very nearly drove me to drink (not the result - I didn't care about that - but the fact that I watched it in a pub down south where the drinkers actually sang the national anthem . Weird, eh? I nearly had a brandy to quell the shock.
Then there has been the power of the internet. Within just seven days, I had two separate nights out with two old school friends who emailed me out of the blue following a ten-year silence. (Adam Searle and Catherine Kitson, fact fans).
Then there has been the usual relentless cycle of boozy nights in and nights out with my south Liverpool band of brothers.
All of these events were potential blog fodder but, frankly, I just couldn't be arsed.
So what has prompted this brief flurry of activity? Well, at the risk of attaching slightly more importance to this project thank is justified, I think God has yet again stuck his oar in.
Remember back in September, when I was on the verge of quitting, and within minutes God had arranged for a bottle of champagne to be delivered to my front door (I interpreted this as a positive and encouraging sign)?
Well, to shake me from my blog stupor, He has hit me with a triple whammy today.
First off, it's November 1, and the passing of another month always gives a boost.
Secondly, I arrived in work to find not one but two emails from well-wishers, asking if I had finally caved in. Well, I say well-wishers, but it was Chris Fellows and Ben Banyard, possibly just inquiring in the hope that I might actually be more fun over the festive season.
Thirdly, I was called by a woman who has written a book called Beat The Booze, which is being released in January next year. Like me, she was a social drinker who went teetotal when she became sick of the booze merrirgoround. She had no idea I was a fellow teetotaller, and was ringing in a professional capacity. However, I lost no time in telling her about my blog (told you I was a show off), so thought I'd better update just in case she actually reads it. It's a keeping up with the Jones thing, you understand.
Anyway, thanks God. Do me a favour and give me a nudge in December, cos I can feel myself getting bored again.
Wednesday, 17 October 2007
Wednesday October 17 - A dry entry in the blog of a social alcoholic
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been nine months, 16 days and 20 hours since my last drink.
Blah blah another dry week blah blah lots of orange juice blah blah went somewhere at the weekend blah blah God I'm shit at golf blah blah had a few drinks in Penny Lane Wine Bar blah blah Gregg did something blah blah sometimes feel quite bored blah blah then feel a bit better.
Etcetera etcetera.
Blah blah another dry week blah blah lots of orange juice blah blah went somewhere at the weekend blah blah God I'm shit at golf blah blah had a few drinks in Penny Lane Wine Bar blah blah Gregg did something blah blah sometimes feel quite bored blah blah then feel a bit better.
Etcetera etcetera.
Tuesday, 9 October 2007
Tuesday October 9 - O.J.O.D
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been nine months, eight days and 20 hours since my last drink.
If I have to taste one more frigging orange juice I'm going to start wearing a white suit and calling myself the man from Del Monte. (You hear an awful lot about how the developed world exploits third world farmers, these days, but they always seemed positively cock-a-hoop to get the nod from that famous panama hat, didn't they? You do the math.)
Back in Brum last weekend, my sister Charlotte said she couldn't believe how often I went to the pub and/or generally socialised. At the time, I wrote it off as the embittered ramblings of a former party animal turned country bumpkinified mother-of-two. However, it seems she may have a point. I've spent five of the last seven nights in a boozy setting. They were as follows:
Tuesday. Met Gregg and Graham at Lief, the newly re-named Alma de Santiago (yes, that'll stop us remembering that two doormen were gunned down there six weeks ago), then on to the Penny Lane Wine Bar. I had three pints of orange juice and soda, and a lively debate about X-Factor.
Thursday. Met Graham at Penny Lane Wine Bar. Two pints of soda and OJ, and a lively debate about the health and safety implications of hatstands.
Friday. Out in Manchester for the leaving do of my old PA colleague Charlie Hamilton. I drank four pints of soda and OJ, which could have been a slightly embarrassing drink to order in fashionable Manchester on a Friday night. Thankfully, the flu-ridden Charlie was drinking hot toddies all night, which shone the spotlight of humiliation rather neatly back onto him. I mean, a hot toddy? That's one step away from asking the barman for a cuddle.
Sunday. Had a few people over for a long, long Sunday lunch. Drank three pints of soda and OJ.
Monday. Had Helen and Adam over for dinner. Drank fizzy grape juice. Well, you don't want to get stuck drinking the same thing all the time, do you?
To be fair, my mood has lifted considerably since my last blog entry, when I was considering calling it a day. Despite the massive orange juice overdose (henceforth known as OJOD), I realy enjoyed my nights out/in and didn't hanker for booze at all. So, do I think I'll stick it out until December 31?
The man from Del Monte, he say yes!
If I have to taste one more frigging orange juice I'm going to start wearing a white suit and calling myself the man from Del Monte. (You hear an awful lot about how the developed world exploits third world farmers, these days, but they always seemed positively cock-a-hoop to get the nod from that famous panama hat, didn't they? You do the math.)
Back in Brum last weekend, my sister Charlotte said she couldn't believe how often I went to the pub and/or generally socialised. At the time, I wrote it off as the embittered ramblings of a former party animal turned country bumpkinified mother-of-two. However, it seems she may have a point. I've spent five of the last seven nights in a boozy setting. They were as follows:
Tuesday. Met Gregg and Graham at Lief, the newly re-named Alma de Santiago (yes, that'll stop us remembering that two doormen were gunned down there six weeks ago), then on to the Penny Lane Wine Bar. I had three pints of orange juice and soda, and a lively debate about X-Factor.
Thursday. Met Graham at Penny Lane Wine Bar. Two pints of soda and OJ, and a lively debate about the health and safety implications of hatstands.
Friday. Out in Manchester for the leaving do of my old PA colleague Charlie Hamilton. I drank four pints of soda and OJ, which could have been a slightly embarrassing drink to order in fashionable Manchester on a Friday night. Thankfully, the flu-ridden Charlie was drinking hot toddies all night, which shone the spotlight of humiliation rather neatly back onto him. I mean, a hot toddy? That's one step away from asking the barman for a cuddle.
Sunday. Had a few people over for a long, long Sunday lunch. Drank three pints of soda and OJ.
Monday. Had Helen and Adam over for dinner. Drank fizzy grape juice. Well, you don't want to get stuck drinking the same thing all the time, do you?
To be fair, my mood has lifted considerably since my last blog entry, when I was considering calling it a day. Despite the massive orange juice overdose (henceforth known as OJOD), I realy enjoyed my nights out/in and didn't hanker for booze at all. So, do I think I'll stick it out until December 31?
The man from Del Monte, he say yes!
Monday, 1 October 2007
Monday October 1 - I'll get by with a little help from my friends. But not my family.
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been nine months and 20 hours since my last drink.
Well, you may recall that last week I was getting fed up with the project and was seriously considering knocking it on the head.
Since then I've had a fantastic, action-packed weekend. Saturday was pretty much the perfect day: golf, football, and foreign food with family. OK, so in the perfect day, I'd have gone around Augusta in par rather than around Huyton Municipal in 134, and I'd have watched Blues beat Man Utd 1-0 rather than vice versa, and the foreign food would have been from India instead of Morocco, but it was still a brilliant day.
So did it reduce my yearning for booze? Did it bollocks.
By Saturday night, the cravings were stronger than ever. So strong were they that I began to talk seriously to anyone who would listen about why it wouldn't be so bad to start drinking again now.
In a nutshell, my arguments were as follows:
1. I've done nine months, which is still a decent achievement.
2. Apart from Christmas, there are no challenges left, so what's the point?
3. This may well be the only Christmas in my career which I get to myself (the media is a 365-days-a-year machine, but CityTalk doesn't launch until January).
4. I'm so BORED of not drinking.
I put this theory to two separate focus groups - my beer-swilling football mates, and my sister Charlotte, who is a primary school teacher and the devoted mother of two young boys.
The two responses were very different.
One was along the lines of: "Don't sell yourself short. You've set yourself a target of 12 months without booze, and anything less would be a failure. Just be strong, and believe in yourself."
The other was more like: "If you want to drink over Christmas, just do it. What do you think is going to happen on New Year's Day if you go the whole year without drinking? You're not going to win a prize. Just get pissed and have some fun."
In case you hadn't guessed (in which case, you must be pissed) the second of those pieces of advice was from Charlotte. The first came jointly from Eddie and Karl as they stood, swaying gently, outside the Adam and Eve pub in Digbeth.
I just don't know who to believe. I think I'll go with Eddie and Karl's advice for now, but only because it sounded like a speech from The Wonder Years, which I was very fond of back in the day. (Charlotte's advice sounded more like something from Teachers, which got a bit tired after series two.)
Anyway, I survived Saturday, and the family party at mum and dad's house on Sunday was relatively easy, even though the booze was relatively free-flowing, and there was even a hilariously-titled bottle of Knob Creek whisky on the go. I had a good day, and by Sunday evening was glad that my sobriety remained in tact.
As I write this, I feel perfectly calm and am not craving booze at all. I suppose I'd had my tantrum on Saturday and ran out of steam. Even the squawkiest of brats has to get up off the floor at Tesco eventually.
I can't promise it won't be the last, though. I sense that this final quarter could be the hardest of them all, and any thoughts of an easy home straight have disappeared faster than a bottle of Knob Creek at a tramp's picnic.
Well, you may recall that last week I was getting fed up with the project and was seriously considering knocking it on the head.
Since then I've had a fantastic, action-packed weekend. Saturday was pretty much the perfect day: golf, football, and foreign food with family. OK, so in the perfect day, I'd have gone around Augusta in par rather than around Huyton Municipal in 134, and I'd have watched Blues beat Man Utd 1-0 rather than vice versa, and the foreign food would have been from India instead of Morocco, but it was still a brilliant day.
So did it reduce my yearning for booze? Did it bollocks.
By Saturday night, the cravings were stronger than ever. So strong were they that I began to talk seriously to anyone who would listen about why it wouldn't be so bad to start drinking again now.
In a nutshell, my arguments were as follows:
1. I've done nine months, which is still a decent achievement.
2. Apart from Christmas, there are no challenges left, so what's the point?
3. This may well be the only Christmas in my career which I get to myself (the media is a 365-days-a-year machine, but CityTalk doesn't launch until January).
4. I'm so BORED of not drinking.
I put this theory to two separate focus groups - my beer-swilling football mates, and my sister Charlotte, who is a primary school teacher and the devoted mother of two young boys.
The two responses were very different.
One was along the lines of: "Don't sell yourself short. You've set yourself a target of 12 months without booze, and anything less would be a failure. Just be strong, and believe in yourself."
The other was more like: "If you want to drink over Christmas, just do it. What do you think is going to happen on New Year's Day if you go the whole year without drinking? You're not going to win a prize. Just get pissed and have some fun."
In case you hadn't guessed (in which case, you must be pissed) the second of those pieces of advice was from Charlotte. The first came jointly from Eddie and Karl as they stood, swaying gently, outside the Adam and Eve pub in Digbeth.
I just don't know who to believe. I think I'll go with Eddie and Karl's advice for now, but only because it sounded like a speech from The Wonder Years, which I was very fond of back in the day. (Charlotte's advice sounded more like something from Teachers, which got a bit tired after series two.)
Anyway, I survived Saturday, and the family party at mum and dad's house on Sunday was relatively easy, even though the booze was relatively free-flowing, and there was even a hilariously-titled bottle of Knob Creek whisky on the go. I had a good day, and by Sunday evening was glad that my sobriety remained in tact.
As I write this, I feel perfectly calm and am not craving booze at all. I suppose I'd had my tantrum on Saturday and ran out of steam. Even the squawkiest of brats has to get up off the floor at Tesco eventually.
I can't promise it won't be the last, though. I sense that this final quarter could be the hardest of them all, and any thoughts of an easy home straight have disappeared faster than a bottle of Knob Creek at a tramp's picnic.
Wednesday, 26 September 2007
Wednesday September 26 - Bored, bored, bored
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been eight months, 25 days and 20 hours since my last drink.
I'm getting seriously pissed off with this project. I feel like I have now proven beyond any doubt that I can have a good time without drinking alcohol. I've been sober at weddings, stag dos, birthdays, leaving parties, nights in, nights out, good times, bad times. And what reward do I get for this marathon effort?
Another three months of sobriety.
Whoopee chuffing do.
Doesn't sound much if you say it fast. People have even been making noises like 'Oooh not long now'. But, actually, three months is a long time. Twelve more Friday nights without the release of a few pints. Twelve more Saturday nights sipping bloody mineral water while everyone else gets stuck into the wine. Twelve more Monday mornings without a comforting swill of vodka to get me out of bed.
It is maddening. What's more maddening is that I know I will complete the year, because I'm just a little bit anal about these things. Yes, I'll be subjecting myself to three more months of voluntary boredom simply because the phrase "one year off the booze" sounds so much more satisfatory than "nine months off the booze".
I think this gloomy patch has been prompted by the fact that non-boozing is now utterly second nature to me and those around me. Nobody, including me, really notices any more. Yesterday I went to the pub twice - first to Rigby's in the city centre to meet a mate from the Echo, then to the Coffee House in Wavertree to celebrate a serious promotion for Gary (deputy editor of the Sunday Sport, no less) - and chugged my way through five pints of non-alcoholic beverage. Two pints of lime and soda, three pints of orange juice and soda. That just can't be natural. I must be the only person in Britain who manages to fulfil the official advice on how much water to drink per day (I think it was about 18 gallons, last time I checked).
It wasn't difficult for me. It didn't spark any debate with those around me. It was just very, very unappetising.
I think the other reason I'm fed up is that I started my new job at CityTalk on Monday. The job itself seems great, and I have no complaints there. What is annoying is that for the first time in my entire career I don't have to drive to work. Indeed, I can't drive to work as I no longer have a car. The 80A bus is now my chariot. When I finish work at 5pm and emerge from the Radio City tower into the crisp autumnal evening, the pubs and bars of Liverpool are my oyster. Dr Duncans, Life, Concert Square, the Phil, the Pilgrim, the Railway, La'Gos, Alma de Cuba, the Jacaranda. Boozers, boozers everywhere yet not a drop I drink.
Like I said before, I know that booze is not essential to having a good time. But it can certainly enhance a good time. It's that enhancement of a good time - of which the immediate post-work pint is the perfect example - that I miss so much.
Oh well. Only three months to go. Not long now, as they say.
I'm getting seriously pissed off with this project. I feel like I have now proven beyond any doubt that I can have a good time without drinking alcohol. I've been sober at weddings, stag dos, birthdays, leaving parties, nights in, nights out, good times, bad times. And what reward do I get for this marathon effort?
Another three months of sobriety.
Whoopee chuffing do.
Doesn't sound much if you say it fast. People have even been making noises like 'Oooh not long now'. But, actually, three months is a long time. Twelve more Friday nights without the release of a few pints. Twelve more Saturday nights sipping bloody mineral water while everyone else gets stuck into the wine. Twelve more Monday mornings without a comforting swill of vodka to get me out of bed.
It is maddening. What's more maddening is that I know I will complete the year, because I'm just a little bit anal about these things. Yes, I'll be subjecting myself to three more months of voluntary boredom simply because the phrase "one year off the booze" sounds so much more satisfatory than "nine months off the booze".
I think this gloomy patch has been prompted by the fact that non-boozing is now utterly second nature to me and those around me. Nobody, including me, really notices any more. Yesterday I went to the pub twice - first to Rigby's in the city centre to meet a mate from the Echo, then to the Coffee House in Wavertree to celebrate a serious promotion for Gary (deputy editor of the Sunday Sport, no less) - and chugged my way through five pints of non-alcoholic beverage. Two pints of lime and soda, three pints of orange juice and soda. That just can't be natural. I must be the only person in Britain who manages to fulfil the official advice on how much water to drink per day (I think it was about 18 gallons, last time I checked).
It wasn't difficult for me. It didn't spark any debate with those around me. It was just very, very unappetising.
I think the other reason I'm fed up is that I started my new job at CityTalk on Monday. The job itself seems great, and I have no complaints there. What is annoying is that for the first time in my entire career I don't have to drive to work. Indeed, I can't drive to work as I no longer have a car. The 80A bus is now my chariot. When I finish work at 5pm and emerge from the Radio City tower into the crisp autumnal evening, the pubs and bars of Liverpool are my oyster. Dr Duncans, Life, Concert Square, the Phil, the Pilgrim, the Railway, La'Gos, Alma de Cuba, the Jacaranda. Boozers, boozers everywhere yet not a drop I drink.
Like I said before, I know that booze is not essential to having a good time. But it can certainly enhance a good time. It's that enhancement of a good time - of which the immediate post-work pint is the perfect example - that I miss so much.
Oh well. Only three months to go. Not long now, as they say.
Sunday, 23 September 2007
Sunday September 23 - Still knackered
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been eight months, 22 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
I.O.U one proper blog entry. It's been too long, and there has been so much to write about. Even in the last 48 hours, potential boozing moments have included:
1. My triumphant return to the UK, which saw me choosing to go to Penny Lane Wine Bar instead of my bed, despite the fact I hadn't slept in 48 hours.
2. A trip to Anfield to watch my beloved Birmingham hold the allegedly mighty Reds to a 0-0 draw. (Doesn't sound that exciting, I know. But success is relative, and Blues fans have to enjoy the few crumbs of comfort that come our way.)
3. A post-match night out in Liverpool. As in a proper night out, with bars and nightclubs and dancing (y'know, reeeeally dancing) and taxis and kebabs.
4. Sunday lunch at Hannah and Gregg's. OK, so that in itself does not present much of a booze risk but it is the first time I have seen them as a couple since they hit us with the news that they are moving to Abu Dhabi in December. I'm gutted, and am seriously considering cutting short this booze-ban in order to enjoy their send-off party properly.
However, all of that will have to wait for another time, as I'm now off to watch Frank Skinner at the Royal Court. I might even ask him for some tips on giving up booze.
I.O.U one proper blog entry. It's been too long, and there has been so much to write about. Even in the last 48 hours, potential boozing moments have included:
1. My triumphant return to the UK, which saw me choosing to go to Penny Lane Wine Bar instead of my bed, despite the fact I hadn't slept in 48 hours.
2. A trip to Anfield to watch my beloved Birmingham hold the allegedly mighty Reds to a 0-0 draw. (Doesn't sound that exciting, I know. But success is relative, and Blues fans have to enjoy the few crumbs of comfort that come our way.)
3. A post-match night out in Liverpool. As in a proper night out, with bars and nightclubs and dancing (y'know, reeeeally dancing) and taxis and kebabs.
4. Sunday lunch at Hannah and Gregg's. OK, so that in itself does not present much of a booze risk but it is the first time I have seen them as a couple since they hit us with the news that they are moving to Abu Dhabi in December. I'm gutted, and am seriously considering cutting short this booze-ban in order to enjoy their send-off party properly.
However, all of that will have to wait for another time, as I'm now off to watch Frank Skinner at the Royal Court. I might even ask him for some tips on giving up booze.
Friday, 14 September 2007
Friday September 14 - Can't blog for long, I'm a bit Thai'd up
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been eight months, 13 days and 21 hours (or 15 if you don't count the time difference) since my last drink.
In Thailand. It's very hot. Certainly too hot to write a blog in a sweaty internet cafe.
Suffice to say I haven't succumbed to any temptation yet, despite the prevalence of 6.2% Chang beer, which can be drunk or used to power the speedboats that have been taking us between various paradise-style islands.
I was tempted to go and watch a ping pong show or man versus woman thai boxing match in Bangkok, however. But Gem said she had no intention of watching gratuitous violence or humiliation, and she definitely wasn't going to pay for it. As a former season ticket holder at Birmingham City, I was quite used to both vices.
Anyway, I'm off for a pineapple juice and a pirate DVD of Hot Fuzz in the hotel room. It's great to sample different cultures.
In Thailand. It's very hot. Certainly too hot to write a blog in a sweaty internet cafe.
Suffice to say I haven't succumbed to any temptation yet, despite the prevalence of 6.2% Chang beer, which can be drunk or used to power the speedboats that have been taking us between various paradise-style islands.
I was tempted to go and watch a ping pong show or man versus woman thai boxing match in Bangkok, however. But Gem said she had no intention of watching gratuitous violence or humiliation, and she definitely wasn't going to pay for it. As a former season ticket holder at Birmingham City, I was quite used to both vices.
Anyway, I'm off for a pineapple juice and a pirate DVD of Hot Fuzz in the hotel room. It's great to sample different cultures.
Wednesday, 5 September 2007
Wednesday September 5 - God sticks His oar in.
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been eight months, four days and 11 hours since my last drink.
OK, so it's fair to say this blog hasn't gone viral. I'm not getting thousands of hits per hour and a six-figure book deal, like that girl who pretended to be a prossie, or the other one who was obsessed with touching herself, ahem, down there.
However, I discovered today that God is keeping an eye on my progress. Which is nice.
How do I know? Well, I awoke this morning feeling pretty fed up with the whole project, and seriously considering quitting. I'm off to Thailand on Saturday, and the thought of all those Bangkok bars (I'm going with Gem, thankyou, before anyone decides to make any Crying Game-related wisecracks), lazy days by the pool, and glorious sunsets without booze filled me with ennui. Would it really be so bad to cal it a day after eight months? I wondered.
I do tend to get these downers just after passing the major milestones. Ie, I look forward to passing a certain point (in this case, the two-thirds mark), only to discover that sobriety on the other side of the hill is just as dull.
So there I was, home alone on a lieu day, nursing dark thoughts about simply ending it all by cracking open that lonely can of Carlsberg in the fridge, when the doorbell goes. It's the postie with a registered-delivery parcel. And it's booze-shaped.
I take it into the dining room, rip off the brown parcel paper, open the box, then unwrap the tissue paper from the object inside to reveal...a bottle of Moet. Champagne, baby! The one drink which, rather embarassingly, I have been craving the most (see previous blog entries). I'm only slightly ashamed to say that I actually whooped with pleasure.
Of course, I could have bought my own champagne before now. Or drank the bottle that Gem was given by her boss a few months ago. But that's not the same as being given your own bottle, for free. And definitely not the same as one dropping into your hands, out of the blue, on a Wednesday morning. Buy champagne, and you'll feel obliged to drink it from a proper glass, sensibly, with friends. But donated champagne can, ney should, be glugged from the bottle, solo and guilt-free. I might even open it by slicing the top of the bottle off with a hunting knife. (Though I'll need to buy a hunting knife, which sort of ruins the spontanaeity.)
The champagne, incidentally, did not come from God Himself. It was sent by a young chap who works in PR. He had asked me for some free advice about how to place a story about custard creams in the national press. My suggestions worked a treat (I don't want to boast, but it would seem that I'm the Max Clifford of the gluten-free biscuit world) and he sent the bottle as a token of thanks.
Now, I know this was a sign. But the question is: what sort of a sign?
Was it a nasty Old Testament God (deep frown, unruly eyebrows, lots of dark clouds behind Him) trying to tempt me and demonstrate to me my own weakness and fallibility?
Or was it a lovely New Testament God (benign expression, neatly trimmed facial hair, cute little lamb nuzzling up to His knee) simply sending me a sign that He is watching over me?
Despite my previous dark thoughts, I interpreted it immediately as the latter. Rather than wanting to pop that bottle right there and then, and use the sweet booze to wash down my Shreddies, I knew straightaway that this was a special bottle, and one that I fully intend to have as my first drink - but not until midnight on New Year's Eve.
Others would have interpreted such an incident as a nasty tease, but I really did find it uplifting. I must be a glass-is-half-full kinda guy.
Speaking of which, I went to the Penny Lane Wine Bar on Monday night, where even a half glass of squash still sets you back a quid. If the Almighty could sort out those tight-arses, that really would be a miracle.
We had a nice night, as it goes, but sitting outside with Cardy, Gary, Gregg, Graham and Ali made me realise that summer is truly over. Even in jumpers and coats, the unmistakable nip of autumn hung in the air, smelling like crunchy leaves and brand new pencil cases.
On Saturday, perhaps in a bid to pretend it was still summer, I climbed Mount Snowdon with Gem, Cardy, Cumbi and Cathy. Considering I haven't really exercised all year, I skipped to the top without too much effort at all. I don't think that would have been the case had I been drinking all year, not least because I'm now a good stone lighter than I was in January.
After descending we camped Saturday night at Betws y Coed. As usual, I was slightly jealous when we tramped off to the nearest pub and I had to neck sickly OJ and sodas while the rest of the group drank beer. But we were all knackered from the day's exertions, and even the drinkers wanted to call it a night after three pints. We're definitely not as young as we used to be.
I went straight to work in Llandudno Junction on Sunday, while the rest went home. This is my last week in work, and on Friday I'll be having my second leaving do - my second dry leaving do - of the year. It won't be a big boozy do, for three very good reasons.
1. I can't get pissed because of this project.
2. Even if I wanted to get pissed, it wouldn't be very sensible as I need to be at Manchester Airport - a place where I have a history of missing flights due to booze -for 7am on Saturday.
3. I've only been there three months, so I'm slightly embarrassed to be having a leaving do at all.
Er, that's all for now. I normally try to come up with a clever pay-off line for each blog entry. But today I'll just say Amen.
OK, so it's fair to say this blog hasn't gone viral. I'm not getting thousands of hits per hour and a six-figure book deal, like that girl who pretended to be a prossie, or the other one who was obsessed with touching herself, ahem, down there.
However, I discovered today that God is keeping an eye on my progress. Which is nice.
How do I know? Well, I awoke this morning feeling pretty fed up with the whole project, and seriously considering quitting. I'm off to Thailand on Saturday, and the thought of all those Bangkok bars (I'm going with Gem, thankyou, before anyone decides to make any Crying Game-related wisecracks), lazy days by the pool, and glorious sunsets without booze filled me with ennui. Would it really be so bad to cal it a day after eight months? I wondered.
I do tend to get these downers just after passing the major milestones. Ie, I look forward to passing a certain point (in this case, the two-thirds mark), only to discover that sobriety on the other side of the hill is just as dull.
So there I was, home alone on a lieu day, nursing dark thoughts about simply ending it all by cracking open that lonely can of Carlsberg in the fridge, when the doorbell goes. It's the postie with a registered-delivery parcel. And it's booze-shaped.
I take it into the dining room, rip off the brown parcel paper, open the box, then unwrap the tissue paper from the object inside to reveal...a bottle of Moet. Champagne, baby! The one drink which, rather embarassingly, I have been craving the most (see previous blog entries). I'm only slightly ashamed to say that I actually whooped with pleasure.
Of course, I could have bought my own champagne before now. Or drank the bottle that Gem was given by her boss a few months ago. But that's not the same as being given your own bottle, for free. And definitely not the same as one dropping into your hands, out of the blue, on a Wednesday morning. Buy champagne, and you'll feel obliged to drink it from a proper glass, sensibly, with friends. But donated champagne can, ney should, be glugged from the bottle, solo and guilt-free. I might even open it by slicing the top of the bottle off with a hunting knife. (Though I'll need to buy a hunting knife, which sort of ruins the spontanaeity.)
The champagne, incidentally, did not come from God Himself. It was sent by a young chap who works in PR. He had asked me for some free advice about how to place a story about custard creams in the national press. My suggestions worked a treat (I don't want to boast, but it would seem that I'm the Max Clifford of the gluten-free biscuit world) and he sent the bottle as a token of thanks.
Now, I know this was a sign. But the question is: what sort of a sign?
Was it a nasty Old Testament God (deep frown, unruly eyebrows, lots of dark clouds behind Him) trying to tempt me and demonstrate to me my own weakness and fallibility?
Or was it a lovely New Testament God (benign expression, neatly trimmed facial hair, cute little lamb nuzzling up to His knee) simply sending me a sign that He is watching over me?
Despite my previous dark thoughts, I interpreted it immediately as the latter. Rather than wanting to pop that bottle right there and then, and use the sweet booze to wash down my Shreddies, I knew straightaway that this was a special bottle, and one that I fully intend to have as my first drink - but not until midnight on New Year's Eve.
Others would have interpreted such an incident as a nasty tease, but I really did find it uplifting. I must be a glass-is-half-full kinda guy.
Speaking of which, I went to the Penny Lane Wine Bar on Monday night, where even a half glass of squash still sets you back a quid. If the Almighty could sort out those tight-arses, that really would be a miracle.
We had a nice night, as it goes, but sitting outside with Cardy, Gary, Gregg, Graham and Ali made me realise that summer is truly over. Even in jumpers and coats, the unmistakable nip of autumn hung in the air, smelling like crunchy leaves and brand new pencil cases.
On Saturday, perhaps in a bid to pretend it was still summer, I climbed Mount Snowdon with Gem, Cardy, Cumbi and Cathy. Considering I haven't really exercised all year, I skipped to the top without too much effort at all. I don't think that would have been the case had I been drinking all year, not least because I'm now a good stone lighter than I was in January.
After descending we camped Saturday night at Betws y Coed. As usual, I was slightly jealous when we tramped off to the nearest pub and I had to neck sickly OJ and sodas while the rest of the group drank beer. But we were all knackered from the day's exertions, and even the drinkers wanted to call it a night after three pints. We're definitely not as young as we used to be.
I went straight to work in Llandudno Junction on Sunday, while the rest went home. This is my last week in work, and on Friday I'll be having my second leaving do - my second dry leaving do - of the year. It won't be a big boozy do, for three very good reasons.
1. I can't get pissed because of this project.
2. Even if I wanted to get pissed, it wouldn't be very sensible as I need to be at Manchester Airport - a place where I have a history of missing flights due to booze -for 7am on Saturday.
3. I've only been there three months, so I'm slightly embarrassed to be having a leaving do at all.
Er, that's all for now. I normally try to come up with a clever pay-off line for each blog entry. But today I'll just say Amen.
Tuesday, 28 August 2007
Tuesday August 28 - Throw me in the Tower
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been seven months, 27 days and 10 hours since my last drink.
So, as hinted at in my last blog entry, I'm moving jobs again. After (almost) three hugely enjoyable months at the Daily Post Wales, I've been made an offer I can't refuse. From the end of September, I'm going to be a producer on a brand new talk radio station in Liverpool, with my own show at weekends.
I'm disappointed to be leaving DPW so soon (I was in my last job for six years, just in case this blog gives the impression that I'm a career slag) but I just find this opportunity too exciting to turn down. Exciting - and a bit scary, too.
I don't want to bang on about my career too much, as this blog is supposed to be about the trials and tribulations of a tee-totaller, not the stuttering career of a jobbing hack.
However, I do wonder if my sobrety is responsible in part for the upheavals in my career this year.
Yes, the DPW came looking for me, so my sobriety can hardly take the credit for that. And the seeds of the radio job were sown last year, when I was still a boozer.
However, I believe it may well have come to nothing, were it not for my booze-free project. Going on the radio to promote my blog reminded me how much I enjoy the medium, and made me want to pursue it as a career. Not drinking every weekend perhaps gave me the extra focus - and energy - I needed to get off my arse and pester the bosses at Radio City. My tee-totalism also gave the foundations for a half-decent show when I stood in for Pete Price back in May, which was probably what persuaded them to offer me this job.
But herein lies the conundrum: it seems that giving up booze may well improve your career, but it also means you can't crack open the champagne when you land that dream job, or even get horribly pissed at your leaving do.
I actually celebrated landing the radio job with the next best thing to champagne - curry. OK, so you don't get to feel like P Diddy - swaggering around a curry house with a Lamb Jalfreizi and naan in hand is not quite the same as strutting through (insert name of fashionable nitespot here) with a magnum of Crystal - but at least the good stuff makes you sweat and babble.
As for the leaving do, I'm happy to keep it low key, anyway. It's pretty embarrassing to be leaving after so short a time, so I'm certainly not after a big fuss. I suppose it'll just be another dry night out in which I get to watch Gregg get hammered and then drive him home. I think he's gonna miss me the most.
Rollercoaster career aside, it's been only a moderately challenging week on the not-drinking front. The weekdays were busy, as usual, and it's fairly easy to avoid booze when you get home late, tired and hungry.
The weekend could have been a little more complicated, as we decided to have a barbecue in our back yard on Bank Holiday Saturday. We'd been promised scorching weather and a free concert by various Beatles tribute bands on the field behind our house, so it seemed an ideal time for a party. Which, in turn, would have been a tempting time for me, as our BBQs are usually extremely drunken affairs involving enormous jugs of booze you wouldn't touch with a bargepole at any other time of year. (I have particularly fond - if slightly hazy - memories of last year's Sangria-fest and the great Pimms tsunami of 2005.)
Fortunately (in a way), the sun hid behind a stubborn layer of grey cloud all day, and the "free" concert turned out to be a ticket-only event for mug tourists who had paid £15 each to stand on what is normally a communal lavatory for our neighbourhood cats and dogs. They let us on eventually, but only on the fourth time of asking, and they must have turned a good couple of hundred away. The bands were quite good but with only a few dozen tourists and residents hanging around, Knebworth it was not.
The fact that the streets were crawling with coppers - due to two bouncers being shot on the door of Alma de Santiago the previous night - did not exactly foster a relaxed atmosphere, either.
So, what could have been a highly tempting day for a tee-totaller was really no challenge at all.
In fact, I have to say that the pisspoor summer has made this challenge a lot easier for me. Previous summers for me have been all about sitting in beer gardens (well, the Dovedale Towers car park) on baking hot evenings, or taking a coolbox of beer to Crosby beach on a Saturday, or getting slowly wasted while watching a Sunday bowls match behind the Coffee House. The only weather-related reason to drink this summer would have been a nip of whisky to keep the chill out.
For the record, I should record one other recent event which could have driven me to drink. I was playing golf yesterday and needed to birdie the last hole (a par 4) to achieve a personal best. Highly unlikely, I thought. A long but wayward drive left me with a half-decent approach. A sweet five-iron left me about five yards from the green but 30 yards from the pin. No chance of a birdie now, I thought, then watched in wonder as my perfectly-weighted chip plonked onto the green and followed a joyous arc right into the cup. Birdie and PB achieved in the most glorious shot I'd ever played. I threw my club into the air in celebration and just seconds later - I swear this is true - the Red Arrows flew overhead in the classic V (for victory!) formation. How they knew about my birdie I'll never know, but it was sweet of them to scramble so quickly to honour me like that.
Some moments are so sweet that they simply deserve booze - and that was one of them. Fortunately, there was none to hand, and the only intoxicant available was the massive spliff being shared by the gang of 12 identikit scallies behind us. Not my scene, daddio.
So, as hinted at in my last blog entry, I'm moving jobs again. After (almost) three hugely enjoyable months at the Daily Post Wales, I've been made an offer I can't refuse. From the end of September, I'm going to be a producer on a brand new talk radio station in Liverpool, with my own show at weekends.
I'm disappointed to be leaving DPW so soon (I was in my last job for six years, just in case this blog gives the impression that I'm a career slag) but I just find this opportunity too exciting to turn down. Exciting - and a bit scary, too.
I don't want to bang on about my career too much, as this blog is supposed to be about the trials and tribulations of a tee-totaller, not the stuttering career of a jobbing hack.
However, I do wonder if my sobrety is responsible in part for the upheavals in my career this year.
Yes, the DPW came looking for me, so my sobriety can hardly take the credit for that. And the seeds of the radio job were sown last year, when I was still a boozer.
However, I believe it may well have come to nothing, were it not for my booze-free project. Going on the radio to promote my blog reminded me how much I enjoy the medium, and made me want to pursue it as a career. Not drinking every weekend perhaps gave me the extra focus - and energy - I needed to get off my arse and pester the bosses at Radio City. My tee-totalism also gave the foundations for a half-decent show when I stood in for Pete Price back in May, which was probably what persuaded them to offer me this job.
But herein lies the conundrum: it seems that giving up booze may well improve your career, but it also means you can't crack open the champagne when you land that dream job, or even get horribly pissed at your leaving do.
I actually celebrated landing the radio job with the next best thing to champagne - curry. OK, so you don't get to feel like P Diddy - swaggering around a curry house with a Lamb Jalfreizi and naan in hand is not quite the same as strutting through (insert name of fashionable nitespot here) with a magnum of Crystal - but at least the good stuff makes you sweat and babble.
As for the leaving do, I'm happy to keep it low key, anyway. It's pretty embarrassing to be leaving after so short a time, so I'm certainly not after a big fuss. I suppose it'll just be another dry night out in which I get to watch Gregg get hammered and then drive him home. I think he's gonna miss me the most.
Rollercoaster career aside, it's been only a moderately challenging week on the not-drinking front. The weekdays were busy, as usual, and it's fairly easy to avoid booze when you get home late, tired and hungry.
The weekend could have been a little more complicated, as we decided to have a barbecue in our back yard on Bank Holiday Saturday. We'd been promised scorching weather and a free concert by various Beatles tribute bands on the field behind our house, so it seemed an ideal time for a party. Which, in turn, would have been a tempting time for me, as our BBQs are usually extremely drunken affairs involving enormous jugs of booze you wouldn't touch with a bargepole at any other time of year. (I have particularly fond - if slightly hazy - memories of last year's Sangria-fest and the great Pimms tsunami of 2005.)
Fortunately (in a way), the sun hid behind a stubborn layer of grey cloud all day, and the "free" concert turned out to be a ticket-only event for mug tourists who had paid £15 each to stand on what is normally a communal lavatory for our neighbourhood cats and dogs. They let us on eventually, but only on the fourth time of asking, and they must have turned a good couple of hundred away. The bands were quite good but with only a few dozen tourists and residents hanging around, Knebworth it was not.
The fact that the streets were crawling with coppers - due to two bouncers being shot on the door of Alma de Santiago the previous night - did not exactly foster a relaxed atmosphere, either.
So, what could have been a highly tempting day for a tee-totaller was really no challenge at all.
In fact, I have to say that the pisspoor summer has made this challenge a lot easier for me. Previous summers for me have been all about sitting in beer gardens (well, the Dovedale Towers car park) on baking hot evenings, or taking a coolbox of beer to Crosby beach on a Saturday, or getting slowly wasted while watching a Sunday bowls match behind the Coffee House. The only weather-related reason to drink this summer would have been a nip of whisky to keep the chill out.
For the record, I should record one other recent event which could have driven me to drink. I was playing golf yesterday and needed to birdie the last hole (a par 4) to achieve a personal best. Highly unlikely, I thought. A long but wayward drive left me with a half-decent approach. A sweet five-iron left me about five yards from the green but 30 yards from the pin. No chance of a birdie now, I thought, then watched in wonder as my perfectly-weighted chip plonked onto the green and followed a joyous arc right into the cup. Birdie and PB achieved in the most glorious shot I'd ever played. I threw my club into the air in celebration and just seconds later - I swear this is true - the Red Arrows flew overhead in the classic V (for victory!) formation. How they knew about my birdie I'll never know, but it was sweet of them to scramble so quickly to honour me like that.
Some moments are so sweet that they simply deserve booze - and that was one of them. Fortunately, there was none to hand, and the only intoxicant available was the massive spliff being shared by the gang of 12 identikit scallies behind us. Not my scene, daddio.
Sunday, 19 August 2007
Sunday August 19 - The Temptometer
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been seven months, 18 days and 10 hours since my last drink.
So, despite all my good intentions, it seems I have gone another 11 days without blogging. No new excuses, I'm afraid. As I've explained before, it seems that working 12-hour days and six-day weeks does not a prolific blogger make. All those great diarists of old (Pepys, Frank, Mole) may have produced better works of literature than me, but they didn't have to drive to Llandudno Junction and back every day to produce a newspaper with around one-third of the required staff. Lucky bastards. (Nor, in fairness, did they spend their free time mooching around on Facebook and watching Big Brother, but I'll gloss over that for now.)
But no matter how busy I get, there always seems to be time to be tempted by sweet, sweet booze. Here are a few selected highlights since my last blog, with an indication of the temptation level and preferred tipple.
Last Friday (Aug 10), 7.30pm. Driving home from work, having somehow survived the busiest six-day week of my working life.
Temptation level: 8/10.
Preferred tipple: neat whisky (too tired for lager - just want instant booze hit.)
Actual tipple: tropical fruit squash.
Last Saturday (Aug 11), 5.30pm. With Hannah, Steve and Graham in the Dispensary pub on Smithdown Road. Aston Villa v Liverpool - my first televised match of the new Premiership season.
Temptation level: 7/10.
Preferred tipple: strong lager.
Actual tipple: orange juice and soda.
Last Saturday, 7.15pm. Still with Hannah, Steve and Graham in the Dispensary. Just seen Villa beaten in final minutes due to an unfairly-awarded free kick.
Temptation level: 9/10.
Preferred tipple: champagne.
Actual tipple: more bloody orange juice and soda.
Last Saturday, 9.30pm. Eating Thai green curry in which I had put double the suggested number of green chilies, including seeds.
Temptation level: 9/10.
Preferred tipple: nothing quenches curry burn like ice-cold lager.
Actual tipple: Schloer (you may sound pissed when you say it, but it is nowhere near as much fun).
Monday (Aug 13), 1pm. Receive a telephone call in which I'm offered perhaps the most exciting opportunity of my life (excluding affairs of the heart and underpants). Temptation level: 11/10.
Preferred tipple: the finest champagne known to man.
Actual tipple: mug of cold tea.
Monday, 1.01pm. Realise that accepting this offer will create major aggro and upset people whom I admire and respect.
Temptation level: 2/0.
Preferred tipple: Settler's Tums.
Actual tipple: same mug of cold tea.
Tuesday, 7am. See hard, irrefutable evidence in kitchen of what I have suspected for some weeks now. Ie, that mouse, or mice, is living behind the cupboards.
Temptation level: 0/10. (It's only a mouse, for pity's sake, it's hardly going to drive me to drink.)
Tuesday, high noon. Decide to accept aforementioned exciting offer.
Temptation level: 5/10.
Preferred tipple: either a shot of brandy to calm nerves, or a celebratory Guinness. Not sure which, but I know there will be trouble ahead.
Wednesday, 9.22pm. Check Blues score on Teletext. Beating Sunderland 2-1, with eight minutes to go. Woo-hoo, first three points of the season.
Temptation level: 0/10. I don't need alcohol as I'm already high on the heady smell of success.
Wednesday, 9.30pm. Check Blues score on Teletext. Hapless ex-Blues striker Stern John has managed to do for Sunderland in the 90th minute what he so rarely did for us. Score. 2-2.
Temptation level: 6/10.
Preferred tipple: gin, please.
Actual tipple: nothing but my own salty tears. (Not really - Blues fans don't start crying until around mid-April.)
Thursday, 7am. Find that our humane mouse trap has worked. Instructions suggest the mouse must be released at least 1km away to prevent him finding his way back. No time for that so I release him in the field behind our house, about 50m away. He's very cute and has a distinctive limp when he runs away. We name him Ronnie and feel glad we didn't use a traditional trap.
Temptation level: 0/10. Like I said before, it's only a mouse.
Friday, 7.30pm. Driving home from work after yet another insanely busy six-day week, involving some serious upheaval and decision-making.
Temptation level: 10/10.
Preferred tipple: I reckon about six pints of Kronenberg would do it.
Actual tipple: tropical fruit squash again. Thank Kia-ora it's Friday.
Saturday, 8am. There's another bloody mouse in the humane trap. I take him out back again and set him free, noticing a distnctive limp as he bolts for freedom. Ronnie, is that you?
Temptation level: 2/10. Well, it was good to see the little fella again.
Preferred tipple: Not sure. Is there a traditional drink for welcoming the return of a beloved rodent? Sherry, perhaps.
Actual tipple: tea.
Saturday, 2pm. Regular readers will not believe this but I won at golf. Honestly. Played the 18-hole at Bowring Park with Jimmy, Gary and Graham, and beat them all. It wasn't even a fluke. I was just in The Zone. Am considering becoming a professional gofer.
Temptation level: 8/10.
Preferred tipple: champagne all round.
Actual tipple: sweet, milky tea (for the shock).
Saturday, 5.30pm. Arrive at Claire and Paul's house in Leeds for their annual summer barbecue, which this year has been rained off so we go for a meal and to a pub instead.
Temptation level: 6/10. It would always be nicer to booze at these events but it is no longer a big deal to refuse, as booze-less nights no longer hold any fear for me.
Preferred tipple: Lager.
Actual tipple: tea.
Saturday 11.30pm. Realise, after about two hours and a scary number of pound coins, that pub quiz machines do not pay out more if you are sober than if you are drunk. They just take, take, take.
Temptation level: 0/10. Trivia, it seems, is more addictive than booze.
Preferred tipple: Never mind that, just stick another quid in!
Actual tipple: Coffee and apple-and-raspberry J2O.
Sunday (today) 9am. Check humane trap but nothing inside. I miss Ronnie.
So, despite all my good intentions, it seems I have gone another 11 days without blogging. No new excuses, I'm afraid. As I've explained before, it seems that working 12-hour days and six-day weeks does not a prolific blogger make. All those great diarists of old (Pepys, Frank, Mole) may have produced better works of literature than me, but they didn't have to drive to Llandudno Junction and back every day to produce a newspaper with around one-third of the required staff. Lucky bastards. (Nor, in fairness, did they spend their free time mooching around on Facebook and watching Big Brother, but I'll gloss over that for now.)
But no matter how busy I get, there always seems to be time to be tempted by sweet, sweet booze. Here are a few selected highlights since my last blog, with an indication of the temptation level and preferred tipple.
Last Friday (Aug 10), 7.30pm. Driving home from work, having somehow survived the busiest six-day week of my working life.
Temptation level: 8/10.
Preferred tipple: neat whisky (too tired for lager - just want instant booze hit.)
Actual tipple: tropical fruit squash.
Last Saturday (Aug 11), 5.30pm. With Hannah, Steve and Graham in the Dispensary pub on Smithdown Road. Aston Villa v Liverpool - my first televised match of the new Premiership season.
Temptation level: 7/10.
Preferred tipple: strong lager.
Actual tipple: orange juice and soda.
Last Saturday, 7.15pm. Still with Hannah, Steve and Graham in the Dispensary. Just seen Villa beaten in final minutes due to an unfairly-awarded free kick.
Temptation level: 9/10.
Preferred tipple: champagne.
Actual tipple: more bloody orange juice and soda.
Last Saturday, 9.30pm. Eating Thai green curry in which I had put double the suggested number of green chilies, including seeds.
Temptation level: 9/10.
Preferred tipple: nothing quenches curry burn like ice-cold lager.
Actual tipple: Schloer (you may sound pissed when you say it, but it is nowhere near as much fun).
Monday (Aug 13), 1pm. Receive a telephone call in which I'm offered perhaps the most exciting opportunity of my life (excluding affairs of the heart and underpants). Temptation level: 11/10.
Preferred tipple: the finest champagne known to man.
Actual tipple: mug of cold tea.
Monday, 1.01pm. Realise that accepting this offer will create major aggro and upset people whom I admire and respect.
Temptation level: 2/0.
Preferred tipple: Settler's Tums.
Actual tipple: same mug of cold tea.
Tuesday, 7am. See hard, irrefutable evidence in kitchen of what I have suspected for some weeks now. Ie, that mouse, or mice, is living behind the cupboards.
Temptation level: 0/10. (It's only a mouse, for pity's sake, it's hardly going to drive me to drink.)
Tuesday, high noon. Decide to accept aforementioned exciting offer.
Temptation level: 5/10.
Preferred tipple: either a shot of brandy to calm nerves, or a celebratory Guinness. Not sure which, but I know there will be trouble ahead.
Wednesday, 9.22pm. Check Blues score on Teletext. Beating Sunderland 2-1, with eight minutes to go. Woo-hoo, first three points of the season.
Temptation level: 0/10. I don't need alcohol as I'm already high on the heady smell of success.
Wednesday, 9.30pm. Check Blues score on Teletext. Hapless ex-Blues striker Stern John has managed to do for Sunderland in the 90th minute what he so rarely did for us. Score. 2-2.
Temptation level: 6/10.
Preferred tipple: gin, please.
Actual tipple: nothing but my own salty tears. (Not really - Blues fans don't start crying until around mid-April.)
Thursday, 7am. Find that our humane mouse trap has worked. Instructions suggest the mouse must be released at least 1km away to prevent him finding his way back. No time for that so I release him in the field behind our house, about 50m away. He's very cute and has a distinctive limp when he runs away. We name him Ronnie and feel glad we didn't use a traditional trap.
Temptation level: 0/10. Like I said before, it's only a mouse.
Friday, 7.30pm. Driving home from work after yet another insanely busy six-day week, involving some serious upheaval and decision-making.
Temptation level: 10/10.
Preferred tipple: I reckon about six pints of Kronenberg would do it.
Actual tipple: tropical fruit squash again. Thank Kia-ora it's Friday.
Saturday, 8am. There's another bloody mouse in the humane trap. I take him out back again and set him free, noticing a distnctive limp as he bolts for freedom. Ronnie, is that you?
Temptation level: 2/10. Well, it was good to see the little fella again.
Preferred tipple: Not sure. Is there a traditional drink for welcoming the return of a beloved rodent? Sherry, perhaps.
Actual tipple: tea.
Saturday, 2pm. Regular readers will not believe this but I won at golf. Honestly. Played the 18-hole at Bowring Park with Jimmy, Gary and Graham, and beat them all. It wasn't even a fluke. I was just in The Zone. Am considering becoming a professional gofer.
Temptation level: 8/10.
Preferred tipple: champagne all round.
Actual tipple: sweet, milky tea (for the shock).
Saturday, 5.30pm. Arrive at Claire and Paul's house in Leeds for their annual summer barbecue, which this year has been rained off so we go for a meal and to a pub instead.
Temptation level: 6/10. It would always be nicer to booze at these events but it is no longer a big deal to refuse, as booze-less nights no longer hold any fear for me.
Preferred tipple: Lager.
Actual tipple: tea.
Saturday 11.30pm. Realise, after about two hours and a scary number of pound coins, that pub quiz machines do not pay out more if you are sober than if you are drunk. They just take, take, take.
Temptation level: 0/10. Trivia, it seems, is more addictive than booze.
Preferred tipple: Never mind that, just stick another quid in!
Actual tipple: Coffee and apple-and-raspberry J2O.
Sunday (today) 9am. Check humane trap but nothing inside. I miss Ronnie.
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