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.