Wednesday Janaury 30 - Free Booze Everywhere And Not A Drop To Drink

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 30 days, 18 hours and two minutes since my last drink.

So, the good news is, I'm still on the wagon. The bad news is, I must have refused several hundred quids worth of free booze during that four-day jaunt to Italy. This feels like madness, as every journalist knows we must drink as much free booze as is humanly possible - thousands of pounds worth if we can - in order to boost our salaries to a decent level. Enough to match our more sensible peers, for example, who plumped for careers in well-paid professions in law or the City. Or, for that matter, teaching, nursing, busking, etc..

I can almost see my parents' faces flush with pride, as they explain: "Well, our Will works long hours for crap money, he doesn't really help anyone and society has zero respect for his profession. However, he did drink three thousand pounds worth of free wine last year, which is almost as good as a pension. He's building up a good layer of fat, which should see him through the first couple of years of retirement."

As a rule, press trips are boozy affairs. Firstly, for the reasons set out above. Secondly, because you go away with several strangers, and alcohol is a useful tool for either bonding with kindred spirits, or numbing the pain of having to talk to dullards.

My friend has a saying. It goes something like this: "On every press trip there is a wanker. If you can't spot him, it's probably you."On this occasion, however, I'm pleased to report a wanker-free party. Unless it was me, which is surely impossible.

Press trips are also likely to be boozy affairs because their reason d'etre is to bribe journalists into writing nice things about a hotel, which will then prompt honest members of society (remember those teachers and buskers I mentioned earlier) to stay in said hotel as a paying guest. And what better way to convince someone to like you than plying them with booze?

We were staying at a five-star hotel in the Italian Alps, which was so sumptuous that it really didn't need to resort to such booze bribery. But it did, anyway, much to the relief of the rest of the group.

I nailed my tee-total colours to the mast during the two-hour transfer from Turin Airport. I thought that was about right - any earlier and I'd have looked like an evangelist, any later and it may have looked like I was trying to hide a dirty secret.

The group were cautious, initially. One or two pulled faces as if I had stood up at a PTA meeting and breezily informed the committee that I'd gone ahead and booked Gary Glitter for the end-of-term disco. In others I noticed a mixture of recognition and relief. As in: "Oh, he's the wanker. Thank God for that - I thought it might be me."

To their credit, they gave me the benefit of the doubt, and even pretended to believe my story that I was writing a blog. (Yes, we know it's true, but if some random stranger tells you they've given up booze in order to write a blog, what would you think? Bloke pretending he's not a raging alkie? Me too.)

The first night was fairly light. Just a couple of litres of red wine and half a bottle of grappa. Each. I had already heroically shunned the bottle of champagne, which was waiting on ice when I arrived in my suite and continued to taunt me for the rest of my stay. Then it was dinner time, and as usual, refusing the first drink was the hardest. The sound of the cork popping like an angel's fart, the glug-glug of the first pour sounding sweeter than any tune played on heaven's harp, an aroma so sweet that you would KILL for just an acorn's cup of it...

But, y'know, water is quite nice, too. Quite refreshing.

It does get easier as the night wears on, however, and I felt that I kept up with the banter and gave a good account of myself. I even tried to join the post-dinner fun by ordering non-alcoholic cocktails. A Shirley Temple and a Flamingo, seeing as you ask - both of which looked gayer than they sound. Which, I'm prepared to concede, is pretty darned gay.

I even kept good humour on the second night, when one of Italy's top sommeliers gave us a personalised wine tasting session with four of the Piedmont region's finest red wines. I would write more about this but fear I may weep over such a senseless waste of top notch booze. Suffice to say I had the glasses before me but was only allowed to mournfully sniff at the contents. What a tease.

For the record, during the four-day trip, I also refused:
- Wine on the flight over
- Beer and wine with lunch
- Hot chocolate with rum during skiing
- A vin chaude for apres-ski
- Champagne with pre-dinner nibbles
- Several buckets of posh wine with dinner
- Fancy dessert wine with, er, dessert
- Grappa, whiskey and other snifters post-dinner
- Beers at Turin airport en route home

And that was just the stuff I was actively offered, never mind what I could have sought out myself. I can't think how I came to be a social alkie.

Oh well, it was tough but at least things should be easier for a while. Now, what am I doing this weekend? Oh, great, a stag weekend in Barcelona. Perfect.

Thursday January 25 - Stranger Danger

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 24 days, 14 hours and 17 minutes since my last drink.

Eeek. Just at Gatwick Aiport, about to go on a press trip to Italy with five people I've met for the first time today. They all seem very nice but I counted approx five jokes/comments about booze in the first ten minutes.

When is a good time to tell a group of strangers that you are a weirdo tee-totaller writing a blog? I don't believe the etiquette for such a moment is sufficiently covered in Debrettes.

Would write more but this internet kiosk costs £1 for ten minutes. High-class hookers charge less than that. Probably.

Right. Let's go poop this party.

Sunday January 21 - Dry Year, Wet Band

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 20 days, 17 hours and 22 minutes since my last drink.

I was up at 3.30am today, duetting to a Keane song on karaoke.

What's that, you say? A relapse? Mission aborted? The sound of a weak-willed man falling off the wagon as it goes over its first speed bump?

Nope, I'm proud to say that is not the case. Well, about as proud as it's possible to be after you've just admitted voluntarily singing a song by Keane - a band so wet they make Coldplay look like Black Sabbath.

However, the important thing is that my precious booze cherry remains fully intact, despite a Saturday night jampacked with temptation. We had eight friends over for dinner last night, which may sound civilised but is normally the recipe for a ten-hour drinking binge.

Let me explain. It starts with a few beers while you cook dinner, then your guests arrive, laden with more booze than Richard Madeley's trench coat pockets. Only people in BBC sitcoms or Jamie Oliver's pretend "mates" turn up to their friend's house with one lousy bottle or a four-pack of beer - the modern dinner guest arrives with a case of strong lager balanced on the shouler, a bottle of white wine in each hand and a red "warming" in the armpit.

You get stuck into a few more beers, then wash down your lovingly prepared meal with a few glasses of wine. And when I say glasses, I mean those fashionably oversized goblets which look more like goldfish bowls. I believe the idea is that you pour a normal-sized measure, which you can then swill around the glass in order to fully appreciate the fruity aroma. The reality, however, is that you fill it to the brim and get stuck in, possibly even leaving it on the table and bowing your head for the first few sips, like a dog drinking water from the toilet.

After dinner, it's another couple of beers to "cleanse the palate", then onto the spirits. Starting with the good stuff, before sampling the delights of the slightly dustier bottles - the raffle prize ouzo, the cooking sherry, that pear schnapps you bought in duty free to use up your last two Euros.

Then you play a few games, have a few heated debates, the guitar comes out and before you know it, it's 5am and the neighbours have come round begging you not to sing American Pie again. Or at least learn the lyrics to more than one verse.

Last night went pretty much to this formula, but I stuck to soft drinks. I started off on Coke, and quickly discovered that the adverts lied. You can beat the feeling, and Coke is not It. Beer is It.
Then I tried to kid my body that I was drinking wine with dinner by glugging grape juice out of a wine glass. It didn't believe me.

At some point I must have stopped yearning, though, and by the wee hours I was definitely having just as much fun as my drunken comrades, as we did battle on Trivial Pursuit, Buzz the music quiz and the Playstation karaoke game Singstar.

I know many booze-free nights ahead will be harder - not least an impending stag weekend in Barcelona - but last night was a doddle, so I might as well enjoy it while I can.

PS. I know you're wondering, and yes, I won Triv (team), Buzz (solo) and Singstar (a battle to the aforementioned Keane). Some bitter people will claim this was due to me being sober and them being pissed. I say talent always shines through.

Friday January 19 - I Have A Dream (Of A Girly Drink)

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 18 days, 17 hours and 50 minutes since my last drink.

I had my first alcohol-related dream last night. Bizarrely, it appeared to be prompted by both a deep yearning for booze (I was thoroughly enjoying my dream dram) but also by a fear of failing my tee-total mission (I woke up feeling guilty - and not in a good way).

However, perhaps the most disturbing element of the dream was the drink itself. Ladies and gentlemen, I dreamed that I was drinking a Jack Daniels and Coke.

Now, I'm not pretending I never drink JD and Coke. It has its place in the great booze hierarchy, and can settle the stomach quite effectively during a big night out, for example.

All the same, it's a bit of a girly drink to be dreaming about. Surely an urbane gent like me should be dreaming of a fine single malt whisky, or some pricey and obscure vodka made from glacial ice harvested with pure platinum pick axes by Latvian craftsmen.
Failing that, even a pint of strong lager would have been preferable, marking me out as an honest man-of-the-people.

But Jack Daniels and Coke? Do I really yearn for something so naff, so nineties, so sickly sweet and synthetic? That's like abstaining from sex for a year then having an erotic dream about...Anthea Turner.

Tonight is Friday, and it has been yet another tough and busy week at work, not least because it was a bit breezy yesterday and several people were struck by flying trees and large pieces of masonry.

My normal plan of attack after such a week - any week, to be honest - would be to head directly to Penny Lane Wine Bar and refuse to leave until my entire body weight was made up of eight parts Guinness and two parts dazzling wit.
Instead, I plan to stay in and get "high on hatred". Jade "Goebbels" Goody will be evicted from Celebrity Big Brother tonight, and I plan to get drunk on the satisfaction of watching the world's longest 15 minutes of fame come to an end.

God, I'm nasty when I'm sober.

PS. Big shout out to the mysterious stranger who has left a comment claiming that AA meetings are more interesting than this blog. Can't believe I'm getting email abuse from a real alkie - must make a pleasant change from shouting it from park benches. Good for you!

Monday January 15 - Desperation Arrives

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been fourteen days, nineteen hours and one minute since my last drink.

I want a drink. I need a drink. I deserve a drink.

The post-Christmas honeymoon - when it actually felt quite pleasant to take a rest from booze - is officially over. Not only is the honeymoon over, but the bride and groom are getting divorced after she caught him joining the Mile High Club on the flight home. With an air steward.

I have worked the last eight days in a row, during which time I have reported on the funeral of a young girl killed by a dog, the sentencing of a man who kidnapped and raped a teenage girl, and four kids whose dad was murdered two months after their mum died.
I also had to loiter for several hours outside Kylie Minogue's hotel in Manchester yesterday, just in case she wanted to pop down and give me an exclusive interview about the illness which forced her to postpone some gigs. She didn't, strangely enough.

I now get one day off before throwing myself into another extended period of murder, death, mayhem and misery. And occasional loitering. If that isn't an excuse to shove my head in a bucket of beer, then I don't know what is. Apart from actually suffering any of those horrible things myself, obviously.

Like many people, I use alcohol as a fast track to relaxation at the end of a stressful week. A good session in the pub feels like one of those fancy shower gel adverts: I wash away my worries using a foaming formula of herbal extracts (Guinness), mild detergent (vodka), and gentle exfoliants (peanuts).

So what the hell am I supposed to do to relax now? Take up yoga? Light one of those scented candles that women tend to give each other for Christmas? Actually bathe in alcohol, but make sure none goes in my mouth?

Nah. Think I'll go and knock back shots of Ribena until the sugar rush kicks in, then use an episode of Celebrity Big Brother as my downer.

See. Who said tee-totalism* can't be fun?

(* Yes, thanks to all of you who gleefully pointed out that I had been misspelling it as tea-totalism. I admit the error but think my spelling makes a lot more sense. Ie, a tea-totaller can only drink tea, not booze. Tee-totalism sounds like you have to play lots of golf, but who am I to argue with the English language?)

Saturday January 13 - Enter The Pub

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 12 days, 16 hours and 17 minutes since my last drink.

Thank Christ for that - I've finally been to the pub.

It was getting slightly embarrassing. All that boasting about how my social circle revolves around pubs, and according to this blog I apparently never ventured into one.
I was beginning to think I must be one of those shameful part-time drinkers who clog up bars over the Christmas period, all novelty ties and tinsel deely boppers. A couple of egg nogs and they think they are Oliver Reed.

Fortunately, the natural drinking cycle began to regain its rhythm this week and I found myself in the boozer on both Thursday and Friday night.

On Thursday I went to meet Gary, Cardy and Sarah at the inappropriately named Coffee House, in Wavertree. This is one of those pubs that looks like it used to be "locals only" but has been given some kind of EU grant to accept a pre-agreed quota of "students", in order to improve social integration. They are allowed two tables and 15% of bar space, it would seem.

Now, when I say "students", I actually mean non-Scousers. My own drinking group is made up of gainfully employed tax-payers who have all held down proper jobs for at least five years. However, because we come mainly from outside Liverpool, and occasionally wear t-shirts with hilarious slogans on, I get the distinct impression that staff and locals still look at us and think: "Students."
I understand this phenomenon should last for only another 10 or 15 years, after which time we are officially naturalised as Liverpudlians in a ceremony which involves repeating the lyrics to Poor Scouser Tommy and claiming that we went to school with one of the Beatles. (Ringo Starr claims only accepted in conjunction with any one other lesser celeb, eg Gerry Marsden, Stan Boardman, Yosser Hughes.)

It was a low-key but pleasant enough night, with only one drawback. We were sat in the snug, underneath a television presumably set at the correct volume for one of the establishment's deaf customers. More precisely, it was set for a deaf customer who was still inside his own house, several miles away, with the radio on. Wearing ear-muffs.
And what were they playing to justify this ear-shattering volume? A crucial football match, perhaps? The Prime Minister declaring war on Germany? No, it was chuffing Judge John Deed. (For those who are interested, it appears that Judge Deed is no longer working some generic northern circuit, but now sits on a European tribunal. He remains, however, as rugged as ever and the closest thing to televisual H.R.T for ladies d'un certain age.)

The drinks looked very tempting indeed, and I nearly wept when Cardy casually left a half-finished pint of Guinness, but I stayed firm and drank soda and blackcurrant, which cost a reasonable 40p for a large glass.

I only mention that price because Friday night involved a trip to Fogherty's - a little Irish bar just off Smithdown Road, where you can still see live music and semi-live customers.
It may look like a social club but the cost of a pint of soda and black was....one whole pound. Yes, that's one quid for a dash of cordial and some carbonated water.
For that sort of money, I'd expect my soda and black served in a diamond-studded goblet, on a silver platter, by a Kate Moss lookalike. Instead I got a pint pot, on a sticky table, served by a Stirling Moss lookalike.

As for my fellow drinkers, let's just say that one well-refreshed woman manage to pick approximately four fights in the space of an hour, and her equally charming husband had to be helped from the premises by paramedics (this is true, I promise) after "slipping" in the toilets and banging his head. Or possibly being justifiably chinned. And to think I was gutted at missing Shameless on Tuesday night.

After that, I thought, you can keep your diamond-studded goblets and Kate Moss lookalikes.

Entertainment of that calibre is worth a pound of anyone's money.

Wednesday January 10 - What Would Allah Do?

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been nine days, 18 hours and 12 minutes since my last drink.

A slightly concerning newsflash from the East.

Matt S, a friend and fellow Social Alcoholic who moved to Dubai last year, sent me the following email:

"I was at the doctor's the other day for a health check and he
asked me about drinking. I told him what you were doing and said I might do something similar. He said it would be bad for my health and told me to drink moderate amounts to stay relaxed. He was a Muslim."

It's fairly worrying when even natives of a country where you can still get whipped for boozing appear to be saying: "Oh go on, you big Jessie, couple of pints won't do any harm."

Still, that's what makes me so hard core.

Physically, the project is going well. The cravings are bearable and the wife says my face looks thinner already - although she couldn't work out if this was due to it being less fat, or simply less puffy through water retention. Yep, I know what you're thinking, she sure is a lucky gal.

Socially, the drinking merry-go-round remains sluggish after Christmas, so I have yet to face the horror of a dry night in the pub. Last night, however, I discovered a potential pitfall for the newly reformed Social Alkie. What do you bring to people's houses when they cook you dinner?

Do you still bring wine even when you don't plan to drink it?
If yes, what is the price threshold?

On the one hand, I don't want to look tight by turning up with a £2 bottle that is made "from a blend of EU countries".
On the other hand, I don't want to fork out £15 for a Chatty Nerd de Bap or a Peanut Gigolo, only to watch my mates slurp it from crystal goblets while I force down brackish tap water from a chipped mug.

This issue cropped up last night when we went to our friends, Hannah and Gregg's, for dinner. Luckily, it was a casual affair, so no big deal to turn up booze-less. But what happens when it's a proper do?

Gregg says I will just have to bring booze and let others drink it. I am not sure whether his advice is based on proper etiquette guidelines, or simply the chance to snaffle free alcohol.

I have my suspicions it is the latter.

Monday January 8 - The Fear Lives On!

My name is Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been seven days, 18 hours and 50 minutes since my last drink.

I have a small apology to make to my dear old friend, alcohol. I had always blamed booze for that creeping feeling of paranoia and self-loathing that tends to descend on a Sunday night and last until mid-Monday. Regular readers may recall that I know this phenomenon as The Fear.

As it turns out, The Fear still pays its weekly visit even after a weekend of saintly abstinence. It is much weaker - a kind of Fear-lite, if you will - with less sweating and sighing, and a slightly reduced craving for two cheese-and-onion pasties for breakfast, but it was unmistakably present last night and this morning.

This may be an unwanted and unexpected side effect of going tea-total. What the hell can I blame for my shortcomings, doubts and fears when alcohol is out of the equation? Mobile phone masts? Sick building syndrome? Asylum seekers? I need a new scapegoat, and fast.

It also reminds me of the old joke: "Just because I'm paranoid, doesn't mean they aren't all out to get me."

Ie, Just because I'm not hungover on a Monday, doesn't mean I'm not considering committing hara kiri with the office stapler.

Hmmm..doesn't really have the same ring, but you know what I mean.

Sunday January 7 - How Do You Solve A Problem Like Tia Maria?

My name is Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been six days, seventeen hours and fourteen minutes since my last drink.

Strange how temptation comes where you might least expect it.

I blogged off on Friday night expecting to be dragged to the pub to sip mineral water while watching my mates get hammered. It was supposed to be the first real test of my fortitude, and I was rather looking forward to getting it out of the way. Unfortunately, having spent the last week bemoaning/boasting about the boozy circles in which I move, not one of the old soaks wanted to go out.

Gary - a drink-sodden hack of almost cliched proportions - was "staying in for a quiet one".
Cardy - a scriptwriter and aspiring novelist (for which alcoholism is surely a pre-entry requirement) - was "going to his mum's".
And Gregg - normally the first man drinking and last drunk standing at any social event - sent me a terse text, which read: "Not tonight mate I'm staying dry - planning to write a song about it."

And so I found myself staying in and watching some Friday night TV, which I remembered from my pre-boozing youth as pretty entertaining. Alas, I was driven to bed early at the ludicrously early hour of 9.30pm by the mind-numbing pap on offer - it was either soap stars singing or Davina McCall shouting. And they wonder why British people feel the need to shove their head into a bucket of hooch on Friday nights.

Anyway, the point is that Friday night was a breeze and I expected an easy weekend, as I was heading to Brum to celebrate my dad's 61st birthday via a weekend of wholesome family activities: ice-skating at Warwick Castle, curry, then sleep over and have Sunday lunch. How hard could that be for the novice tea-totaller?

Answer: pretty bloody hard.

Let's start with the ice-skating. A floodlit ice-rink in the grounds of one of Britain's most beautiful castles. Sounds idyllic. Looks idyllic. Feels like hobbling around inside a freezer while wearing flip-flops with butter knives taped loosely to the soles. Possibly one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life since...well, since watching Celebrity Big Brother on Friday night. As I hobbled off the ice, my sister Hannah gleefully pointed out that mulled wine was on sale. Normally, I shun mulled wine on the grounds that it tastes like normal wine that has been strained through a maiden aunt's lavender-scented sock drawer then warmed up on her electric blanket. At that moment, however, I would have gladly mulled myself to Kintyre and back to ease the memory of ice skating. Fortunately - this being a UK tourist attraction - I couldn't afford one. By the time I had phoned my bank to arrange a second mortgage, the moment had passed.

The curry house was even worse. You can keep your Fred and Gingers, your Morecambe and Wises, even your Ian and Myras. Beer and curry is the ultimate partnership, and it will never die. Watching my family sip ice-cold Kingfishers while I drank Coke left me feeling flatter than, er, the Coke I was drinking. Even my pregnant sister Charlotte allowed herself half a pint. Of tequila. (Only joking, Char. It was beer. With a tequila chaser.)

The last hurdle during this unexpectedly tough weekend was Sunday lunch. Refusing the red wine on offer was easy enough, and all I wanted - ney, deserved - was a bit of chocolate gateau for dessert. The cake was just seconds from my grasp when my mum pointed out that it contained alcohol. I did consider bending the rules on this one, as it was such a miniscule amount. However, my brother Dan correctly observed that it may send out unclear messages about my "lifestyle choices" if I abstained from booze for a whole year and only succumbed to a nice dash of Tia Maria.

I had the apple crumble instead.

Friday January 5 - Invitation Leaves A Sour Taste

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been four days, 18 hours and 12 minutes since my last drink.

Fate is a cruel mistress.

As a journalist based in Liverpool, my news patch covers Merseyside, Cheshire and North Wales. To be honest, it is not the world's most glamorous patch, and my usual idea of an 'overseas assignment' is covering a magistrates case on Anglesey. Hooray for Holyhead.

Very occasionally, however, I am lucky enough to go on proper junkets. I was offered one today.

"Want to go to Canada?", he said.
"Absolutely", I said.
"Got a trip to Niagara for you", he said.
"Perfect," I said.
"Leaving at the end of January," he said.
"No problem", I said.
"Visit the falls", he said.
"Sounds cool", I said.
"Stay in some luxury accommodation", he said.
"I can live with that", I said.
"But it's mainly about the Niagara Wine Festival," he said.
"Oh bollocks", I said.

Abstaining from booze while on foreign trips is one thing, but agreeing to cover a wine festival then refusing to drink any would be professionally unsound, as I would be unable to give an accurate report. See, we do have morals. I had to say no. No doubt the trip has already been passed to one of my colleagues, who will be packing a thermal vest and a straw this very minute. Bah.

The draw of Friday night boozing is strong tonight, but nowhere near as bad as I had feared. My wife, Gemma, has decided to give up alcohol for January, so I will not be tortured by the delicious sound of cork-popping and wine-glug-glug-glugging at home for the next four weeks. As for my drinking cronies, they are either too skint after Christmas or have decided to abandon me already, as my phone remains suspiciously silent.

Think I'll go and find out.

Thursday January 4 - Just For The Sake Of It

My name is Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been three days, 18 hours and one minute since my last drink.

Having had the validity of my noble project questioned by one or two naysayers, allow me to get one thing straight: I know that plenty of people before me have given up drink.

I know that many women, for example, abstain for nine months of pregnancy - plus a few more to avoid lacing their breastmilk with the zesty kick of Tennants Super.
I know that people give up drinking when they fall ill or see the devastating effects of alcoholism on a loved one.
I know that some people convert to Islam. The Artist Formerly Known as Cat Stevens wrote most of his best material after three to four pints of mild, apparently, but hasn't touched a drop since becoming Yusuf Islam.

I, however, am none of the above.

I am healthy and have no fun-spoiling foetus inside me, nor am I haunted by the ghosts of pickled relatives, nor have I converted to Islam.

But don't you see? My lack of valid reason to give up booze is what makes this challenge so darned special. Point to a bulging tum or a prayer mat when you order that mineral water and society will instantly let you off the hook. Tell them you just want to dry out for a year, on the other hand, and they treat you like a paediatrician on a Portsmouth council estate.

Progress update: The Fear has now dissipated, thank God, and still no withdrawal pangs yet, as the post-Christmas penury and misery makes it easy to go straight home. I can't help but fear this is the calm before the storm, as tomorrow is Friday night, when booze is at its sweetest. Bring it on.

Tuesday Janaury 2 - The FEAR

My name is Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 30 hours and 20 minutes since my last drink.

Feel broken. I've just had the worst night's sleep ever and now have to go to work. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Tea-totallers are supposed to be...chipper. Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and full of bonhomie, as if they have just returned from a weekend of hill-walking and prayer circles in the Peak District.
Anyone over the age of 25 who has had a heavy weekend will know what I mean when I say I had "The Fear" last night. Normally a Sunday night phenomenon, there are many names for it - the heebie-jeebies, the dread, the back-to-school blues - but the sinking feeling is universal. Some scientists believe the feeling can be triggered by the Antiques Roadshow theme tune, and memories of unfinished school homework assignments.
The Fear is the worst part of a hangover. Headaches and dry mouths can be cured with paracetemol and tea, but The Fear is invincible and this one was a doozie. It was like it knew it could not visit me for another 12 months so wanted to go out with a bang.
I won't miss it, and currently feel like I never want to drink another drop of alcohol for the next ten years, never mind one.
I know from experience that such feelings of temperance generally last 24 to 36 hours, when memory of The Fear subsides and sweet sweet Booze beckons.
Well, not this time, Booze, you painted Jezebel!

Monday January 1 - The End Of A Heavy Week

My name is Will and I am a social alcoholic. It's been 15 hours and 31 minutes since my last drink.

As planned, I downed my last alcoholic beverage (a pint of Guinness – the tipple I will miss the most) shortly before Big Ben struck midnight. At least, I assume that Big Ben struck midnight. I have yet to visit the pub or restaurant that has mastered the notoriously tricky craft of switching the TV or radio on at the correct time, and at the requisite volume, thus enabling people to hear the event that the whole chuffing night is supposedly about.
Last night's venue was no exception. At around five to midnight we obediently stood up and linked our crossed hands in preparation for Auld Lang Syne - a song deemed fit to mark the start of each new year of hope and promise, despite the fact that nobody really knows the tune, lyrics or what the title actually means. Still, it's tradition, innit?
After several minutes of semi-embarrassed hand-holding, one of our party decided enough was enough, and simply started to count down loudly from ten. That seemed to do the trick, and set off all the other tables. Happy New-ish year, everyone!
Knowing in advance that I would give up alcohol on the stroke of midnight, I had rather assumed the rest of my night would be tarnished by the lack of booze, and I would have to make my excuses and leave by 1am. In fact, I had a brilliant time and did not hit the hay until well past 3am.
I'd like to pretend this was because I immediately realised that alcohol is not essential to having a good time, and that it is the person inside that counts. Alas, on this occasion, it was really just the alcohol inside that counted. I had downed so much in my final pre-midnight spree that I was sufficiently lubricated for several more hours of drunken rambling.
Awoke this morning with a hangover, which made me feel quite indignant. I had, after all, spent three hours drinking water after mignight, which I believed entitled me to awake feeling fitter and fresher than Dr Gillian McKeith during Lent. Instead, I felt rougher than Michael Barrymore after one of his wilder pool parties.

However, I then realised my last week's drinking diary looked a little like this.

Sunday December 31 – four pints beer, one bottle wine, one tequila. Excuse: New Year's Eve, last booze for a year.
Saturday December 30 – six pints beer, four glasses red wine, one glass champagne, two vodkas, two sambucas. Excuse: Jim and Kate's wedding.
Friday December 29 – four pints strong lager. Excuse: Wanted to catch up with Graham (whom I last saw on Wednesday.)
Thursday December 28 – alcohol-free day. Reason: on-call.
Wednesday December 27 – five pints strong lager. Excuse: Two festive pints with Jon, then Graham turned up so had two festive pints with him. Then another for luck.
Tuesday December 26 – One pint beer, eight cans of strong lager. Excuse: football match followed by Boxing Day party at Matt and Zoe's.
Monday December 25 – Beer, wine, champagne, port. Quantities unknown. Excuse: Baby Jesus.
Sunday December 24 – Four cans beer, port, wine. Excuse: First day off after six days on duty, plus excitement over what colour socks I'd be getting for Christmas.

That's quite heavy, even for a self-confessed SA like me. Spent the rest of the day shivering and feeling slightly paranoid. Oh well, at least a night's sleep will sort me out.

The Feedback - With Friends Like These...

A good measure of the true scale of any challenge is to assess the reaction of one's friends and family. I broke the news of my dry 2007 in a group email, to which I requested an honest and instinctive response.
Many were supportive. Some were abusive. Most were both. I reprint them here to give a flavour of the kind of support I can expect over the coming 12 months.

Pete: Brilliant, we'll obviously have to sabotage the project. Good luck anyway.

Hugo: I think it's utter madness, but that could be the difference between 'social alcoholic' and plain old 'alcoholic'. Best of luck.

Phil: We'll support you every step of the way, mainly by using you as a taxi driver and source of ridicule.

Jon: I trust that the perceived benefit of this madcap plan is that you can concentrate all your financial resources on smack?
(Note to readers, including parents and employers. That was a joke.)

Rich: You're not going to start using smack are you?
(For God's sake, do I look like Zammo or something? I'm not even Scottish, so let's drop the smack references, please.)

Charlotte: Great idea in theory but we're planning a sweep to see how long it will last. February?

Matt C: Just don't get all pious about it.

Don: Most people who give up booze inevitably become one of those boring f*ckers who only talk about their teatotal existence. Stay interesting.

Matt L: Don't know about eveyone else but I'm cutting Will off from this point on. He was only just bearable after a few beers, but stone cold sober? Rubbish.

Cardy: Weak.

Gregg: Social suicide.

Gary: I am away from the office until January 22nd, please contact our office directly if you have any urgent queries. Regards, Andrew.

Having pointed out the glitch in Gary's work email system, he gave the following verbal response: "You are dead to me."

FAQs and Rules

My plan is both insanely simple and simply insane: To abstain from all alcoholic beverages FOR THE WHOLE OF 2007.

Frequently Asked Questions.

Are you really giving up alcohol for the whole year?
Yes, really.

The whole year?
Yes, the whole year.

All of 2007?
Yes, all of it.

Will you give yourself a day off on special occasions?
No, Satan, I will not. Every day is included – from weddings to funerals, stag parties to baby showers, bahmitzvas to barbeques.

Does alcohol in food count as alcohol?
All alcoholic substances are off-limit, including chocolate liqeurs, sherry trifle, and that delicious hand-wash they serve in hospitals.

Does a lager top count?
Yes, even if it's a sizeable top.

Won't you just stop going out to the pub?
No, I pledge to continue socialising as normally as possible with my friends.

What if they don't want a boring tea-totaller around, and try to hide?
Tough. I'll find them.

Will you get all preachy and pious about alcohol?
I'll try not to, but I'm not making any promises.

Will you let us know if you fall off the wagon?
Yes, I'll be updating this blog regularly with all my trials and tribulations, and I vow to be honest. I shall also be keeping track of any weight loss and financial gain.

The Introduction - What Is A Social Alcoholic?

My name is Will and I am a social alcoholic.

There, I've said it. If I was a proper alcoholic I'd have got a round of applause for that. Proper alkies get all the glory. We social alcoholics are their poor cousins – which is ironic, because they are the ones who have lost their jobs and spent all their money on booze.
If you are reading this blog, you too may be a social alcoholic. If not, you certainly know one. We are a common breed.

But how to spot us?

Unlike proper alcoholics, social alcoholics do not have gruesome tales of hitting rock bottom. We start our day with toast and tea, not G&T. We use Brasso for knick-knacks, not necking. And the only time we hide stashes of booze around the house is to prevent family and friends from drinking the good stuff.
We social alcoholics are not physically addicted to alcohol, and our lives have not been torn apart by drink. We can go for days or even weeks at a time without boozing.

It's just that we prefer not to.

Alcohol is not the driving force in our lives, but it does like to shout regular instructions from the back seat. We use it to celebrate and commiserate, to gear ourselves up and wind ourselves down, to mark an occasion or simply pass time. In summer we use to to cool down, in the winter to warm up. And in the autumn and spring? We just use it to get pissed.
The social alcoholic's week is often structured around bingeing and purging on drink. Does this pattern seem familiar to you?

Monday – a few snifters to 'take the edge off' the start of the working week.
Tuesday – dry
Wednesday – a mini-session to mark the mid-week milestone.
Thursday – dry, or possibly a few to 'take the edge off' last night's mini session.
Friday – a very well-deserved post-working week session
Saturday – a combined session to both 'take the edge off' the very well-deserved post-working week session, and to celebrate the joy of Saturday.
Sunday – dry, or perhaps a few cheeky ones, seeing as it's Sunday.

If that does sound familiar, then you my friend are an social alcoholic, and this blog is for you. Come join me on this virtual park bench, and take a swig from my 3-litre bottle of White Lightning wisdom.