My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been one month, 25 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
I went to bed at 9pm last night. I was so tired that my eyes were itching, I was bumping into furniture and I had lost the power to speak in full sentences.
It was a spooky reminder of how I used to feel almost every Sunday night.
Thankfully, I slept like a baby and my night was free of that other Sunday night staple for any Social Alcoholic: The Fear (horrible back-to-school paranoia, see early blog entries).
Still, Fear-free slumber was the least I deserved after not only shunning booze in Bulgaria, but then torturing myself by going to the pub with Gregg and Graham yesterday afternoon.
After forcing down three pints of soda and blackcurrant, and watching them get slowly merry on cooking lager, I decided to try to replicate the proper pub experience by ordering a bottle of Kaliber.
"Is that low-alcohol or alcohol-free," I asked the very Scouse barman.
"Alcohol-free, mate," he replied.
"Right. I'll have one of them, please," I said.
"Do you know if it's any good," I added, as an afterthought.
"It tastes," replied the barman, pausing to pop the cap off the bottle and place it on the bar, "like a fart. Two pound forty, mate."
And do you know what? He was right.
Like I say, a decent night's kip was the least I deserved.
Monday, 26 February 2007
Sunday, 25 February 2007
Saturday, 17 February 2007
Friday, 16 February 2007
Friday February 16 - Sherry Mason
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been one month, 15 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
But, God, do I want one.
It was my own fault. I shouldn't have boasted. At 1.30pm today I was merrily explaining to another journalist - himself a blogger - that I was finding the whole no-booze thing relatively easy. "I need something to make it a bit harder," I simpered.
Within three hours, my wish was granted.
It is now 6.30pm and I am seriously gagging for a drink. Not to quench my thirst. Not to celebrate the end of a week. Not even to mark the glorious fact that I'm going skiing tomorrow and don't have to work for the next nine days.
No, I want a drink to douse the incandescent rage that it is coursing through my body.
The man who lit the fire was - perhaps unsurprisingly - a solicitor. A pompous, jumped-up, pen-pushing, beetroot-faced little turd of a man at Liverpool Magistrates Court.
This man was so incensed by me and other journalists attending court to report on his client - a little shit who has repeatedly flouted a driving ban imposed for killing a teenage cyclist - that he refused to give his (the solicitor's)name. That's right. A legal professional working in our so-called "open justice" system, and he won't even identify himself.
When I (very politely) inquired why, he gave me and another couple of reporters an absolute gobful of abuse. The long and short of it was, effectively, his client is exceedingly hard done-by and we are utter scum for daring to publicise the case.
To be honest, I don't really care about the abuse. Most people hold my profession in contempt - sometimes I dare say we deserve it - and you can't be over-sensitive about these things.
But being abused by a small-time defence solicitor? Someone whose main contribution to society is trying to ensure that its pondlife criminals remain at liberty? I'm not having that.
There followed a frank exchange of views, in which he put forward a number of brilliant arguments, of the type you would expect from a legal professional. These included:
1. I'm surprised you can actually read.
(Oscar Wilde, eat your heart out.)
2. You should do your homework properly.
(Er, that's what I was trying to do when I asked your name, which you refused to do.)
3. My brother's a journalist, so don't tell me about journalism.
(Ah, a vintage playground classic. I should have told him that my dad is bigger than his.)
As it happens, I got his name anyway. Quick tip for any solicitors who wish to withhold their name from the press: don't walk around with it emblazoned on your files in large type. Dickhead.
I won't give it here, but I should probably give him a pseudonymn, for the record. I'm torn between:
Arsehole of the Bailey.
Cavanagah QC (Quite a Cock)
Or - judging from his rather florid complexion - Sherry Mason.
I left the argument there and walked out of court, absolutely seething. I'm still seething now. I thought writing it down might help. It hasn't.
What I'd love now is to go out to the pub with some mates - preferably other reporters - and wash the stain from my memory with several pints of lager, and a few laughs.
I won't, though, mainly because I don't want him to win. My pride will keep me dry tonight.
But, God, do I want one.
It was my own fault. I shouldn't have boasted. At 1.30pm today I was merrily explaining to another journalist - himself a blogger - that I was finding the whole no-booze thing relatively easy. "I need something to make it a bit harder," I simpered.
Within three hours, my wish was granted.
It is now 6.30pm and I am seriously gagging for a drink. Not to quench my thirst. Not to celebrate the end of a week. Not even to mark the glorious fact that I'm going skiing tomorrow and don't have to work for the next nine days.
No, I want a drink to douse the incandescent rage that it is coursing through my body.
The man who lit the fire was - perhaps unsurprisingly - a solicitor. A pompous, jumped-up, pen-pushing, beetroot-faced little turd of a man at Liverpool Magistrates Court.
This man was so incensed by me and other journalists attending court to report on his client - a little shit who has repeatedly flouted a driving ban imposed for killing a teenage cyclist - that he refused to give his (the solicitor's)name. That's right. A legal professional working in our so-called "open justice" system, and he won't even identify himself.
When I (very politely) inquired why, he gave me and another couple of reporters an absolute gobful of abuse. The long and short of it was, effectively, his client is exceedingly hard done-by and we are utter scum for daring to publicise the case.
To be honest, I don't really care about the abuse. Most people hold my profession in contempt - sometimes I dare say we deserve it - and you can't be over-sensitive about these things.
But being abused by a small-time defence solicitor? Someone whose main contribution to society is trying to ensure that its pondlife criminals remain at liberty? I'm not having that.
There followed a frank exchange of views, in which he put forward a number of brilliant arguments, of the type you would expect from a legal professional. These included:
1. I'm surprised you can actually read.
(Oscar Wilde, eat your heart out.)
2. You should do your homework properly.
(Er, that's what I was trying to do when I asked your name, which you refused to do.)
3. My brother's a journalist, so don't tell me about journalism.
(Ah, a vintage playground classic. I should have told him that my dad is bigger than his.)
As it happens, I got his name anyway. Quick tip for any solicitors who wish to withhold their name from the press: don't walk around with it emblazoned on your files in large type. Dickhead.
I won't give it here, but I should probably give him a pseudonymn, for the record. I'm torn between:
Arsehole of the Bailey.
Cavanagah QC (Quite a Cock)
Or - judging from his rather florid complexion - Sherry Mason.
I left the argument there and walked out of court, absolutely seething. I'm still seething now. I thought writing it down might help. It hasn't.
What I'd love now is to go out to the pub with some mates - preferably other reporters - and wash the stain from my memory with several pints of lager, and a few laughs.
I won't, though, mainly because I don't want him to win. My pride will keep me dry tonight.
Wednesday, 14 February 2007
Wednesday February 14 - My Thirst, My Last, My Everything
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been one month, 13 days and 17 hours since my last drink.
Today we celebrate the feast of St. Valentine - patron saint of Clinton's Cards.
Gemma and I are planning to stay in and cook a "nice meal" tonight (has anyone ever planned to stay in and cook a shit meal?), rather than endure the public shame of going to a restaurant as a couple, and feeling pressurised to look more in love than couples seated nearby.
But whether you choose to stay in or go out, booze is pretty integral to most people's Valentine's Day. You know how it goes. Liqueur-filled chocolates, a bottle of champagne on ice, a fine wine with dinner. And, if you finish "celebrating your love" quickly, you might even have time for a couple of pints of Guinness and a bag of nuts before last orders.
I suppose some couples also need a few glasses of wine to remember just how much they love each other. Or at least to forget how much they annoy each other for long enough to get through a steak dinner without coming to blows.
We're not like that, obviously.
Gem has been extremely supportive of my tee-totalitarianism, and she even joined me in shunning alcohol for the month of January. As such, it would probably be petty to mention that she recently returned home with 23 bottles of wine, after spotting that a supermarket was selling off its quality Christmas booze for £1 a bottle. So I won't. Nor will I mention how she triumphantly lined up the bottles on the kitchen table and talked me through the merits of each one, apparently oblivious to my pained expression and the glistening stalactite of drool hanging from my bottom lip.
The bottles are now packed onto our booze shelf, with the remainder lined up on the floor beneath. Sometimes I swear I hear them laughing at me.
Despite this one instance of crass insensitivity, I hope it goes without saying that Gem is my one true love, and the only recipient of a Valentine's card sent by me this year.
I did wonder, however, if I should have sent one to my second love. Something like:
Dear Booze,
Roses are red
violets are blue
Now I'm tee-total
But God I miss you.
Love always,
W x
Better still, I should have sent the story of this very special love affair with the bottle to Simon Bates, for an "Our Tune". I think he still does them on some Godforsaken commerical station somewhere. Please add the music yourselves, and try to read it in a Bates-style honey-coated baritone. You'll enjoy it more that way...
Na na na naaaaa, na na na naaa.....
This is a story about a guy. A guy named Will. Will grew up in the West Midlands, in a little place named Solihull. Life was pretty good to Will. He had a happy childhood, yeah there were a few knocks along the way, but nothing he couldn't handle. Then, one fateful day sometime in the mid-1980s, Will met Booze. And, I guess it's fair to say, life would never be the same for either of them again.
Like so many great love affairs, this one started out with friendship. Will was allowed a shandy when he went to his gran's house, or a sip of his dad's wine with Sunday lunch. Sometimes, he would sneak a taste of whiskey from the drink's cabinet. It's fair to say it took his breath away.
Na naaaa, na na na na na na na na naaaa...
Well, with time, the friendship turned to something more. By the early 1990s, Will and Booze were seeing more of each other. A lot more. They would steal Friday nights together in the intimate surroundings of The Wharf, a back street pub in Digbeth. Yes, the carpets were so sticky you had to wipe your feet on the way out. Yes, the "lived-in" decor made the nearby Digbeth Coach Station look like the Ritz. And yes, Will had to remember to call himself "Richard Reed" (the name on his fake ID - no relation to the shoe bomber of latter years). But The Wharf had one thing going for it. It allowed Will and Booze's love to grow. It also allowed mold to grow in the toilets, but that's a different story.
Well, time passed, and the love grew stronger. Yes, Will knew that Booze saw other men. A lot of other men. He didn't mind that, because she was always there when he needed her. She was always at his side, through school, through university, she even agreed to move to Liverpool with him.
But, the course of true love never did run smooth. And one cold day in December 2006, Will got bored of Booze. So he dumped her. But only for a year.
Na na na na naaaaa
Will knows that one day, he and Booze will meet again. Perhaps he just needed a little space after 15 intensive years together. Perhaps familiarity does breed contempt. Perhaps he just thought "Sod it. It's only a year, and I know where to find her".
Either way, if Booze is listening, Will hopes you're well, and he says he hopes you can forgive him. He wants to send you a message, and he knows that everything he wants to say to you, Booze, is captured in the next song.
Here's Natalie Cole, with I Miss You Like Crazy.
Today we celebrate the feast of St. Valentine - patron saint of Clinton's Cards.
Gemma and I are planning to stay in and cook a "nice meal" tonight (has anyone ever planned to stay in and cook a shit meal?), rather than endure the public shame of going to a restaurant as a couple, and feeling pressurised to look more in love than couples seated nearby.
But whether you choose to stay in or go out, booze is pretty integral to most people's Valentine's Day. You know how it goes. Liqueur-filled chocolates, a bottle of champagne on ice, a fine wine with dinner. And, if you finish "celebrating your love" quickly, you might even have time for a couple of pints of Guinness and a bag of nuts before last orders.
I suppose some couples also need a few glasses of wine to remember just how much they love each other. Or at least to forget how much they annoy each other for long enough to get through a steak dinner without coming to blows.
We're not like that, obviously.
Gem has been extremely supportive of my tee-totalitarianism, and she even joined me in shunning alcohol for the month of January. As such, it would probably be petty to mention that she recently returned home with 23 bottles of wine, after spotting that a supermarket was selling off its quality Christmas booze for £1 a bottle. So I won't. Nor will I mention how she triumphantly lined up the bottles on the kitchen table and talked me through the merits of each one, apparently oblivious to my pained expression and the glistening stalactite of drool hanging from my bottom lip.
The bottles are now packed onto our booze shelf, with the remainder lined up on the floor beneath. Sometimes I swear I hear them laughing at me.
Despite this one instance of crass insensitivity, I hope it goes without saying that Gem is my one true love, and the only recipient of a Valentine's card sent by me this year.
I did wonder, however, if I should have sent one to my second love. Something like:
Dear Booze,
Roses are red
violets are blue
Now I'm tee-total
But God I miss you.
Love always,
W x
Better still, I should have sent the story of this very special love affair with the bottle to Simon Bates, for an "Our Tune". I think he still does them on some Godforsaken commerical station somewhere. Please add the music yourselves, and try to read it in a Bates-style honey-coated baritone. You'll enjoy it more that way...
Na na na naaaaa, na na na naaa.....
This is a story about a guy. A guy named Will. Will grew up in the West Midlands, in a little place named Solihull. Life was pretty good to Will. He had a happy childhood, yeah there were a few knocks along the way, but nothing he couldn't handle. Then, one fateful day sometime in the mid-1980s, Will met Booze. And, I guess it's fair to say, life would never be the same for either of them again.
Like so many great love affairs, this one started out with friendship. Will was allowed a shandy when he went to his gran's house, or a sip of his dad's wine with Sunday lunch. Sometimes, he would sneak a taste of whiskey from the drink's cabinet. It's fair to say it took his breath away.
Na naaaa, na na na na na na na na naaaa...
Well, with time, the friendship turned to something more. By the early 1990s, Will and Booze were seeing more of each other. A lot more. They would steal Friday nights together in the intimate surroundings of The Wharf, a back street pub in Digbeth. Yes, the carpets were so sticky you had to wipe your feet on the way out. Yes, the "lived-in" decor made the nearby Digbeth Coach Station look like the Ritz. And yes, Will had to remember to call himself "Richard Reed" (the name on his fake ID - no relation to the shoe bomber of latter years). But The Wharf had one thing going for it. It allowed Will and Booze's love to grow. It also allowed mold to grow in the toilets, but that's a different story.
Well, time passed, and the love grew stronger. Yes, Will knew that Booze saw other men. A lot of other men. He didn't mind that, because she was always there when he needed her. She was always at his side, through school, through university, she even agreed to move to Liverpool with him.
But, the course of true love never did run smooth. And one cold day in December 2006, Will got bored of Booze. So he dumped her. But only for a year.
Na na na na naaaaa
Will knows that one day, he and Booze will meet again. Perhaps he just needed a little space after 15 intensive years together. Perhaps familiarity does breed contempt. Perhaps he just thought "Sod it. It's only a year, and I know where to find her".
Either way, if Booze is listening, Will hopes you're well, and he says he hopes you can forgive him. He wants to send you a message, and he knows that everything he wants to say to you, Booze, is captured in the next song.
Here's Natalie Cole, with I Miss You Like Crazy.
Saturday, 10 February 2007
Saturday February 10 - From No Booze To No Blues
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been one month, nine days and 14 hours since my last drink.
Had my first beer of 2007 last night. Alcohol-free, natch. It had been in my fridge since early January but, to be honest, I was terrified of drinking it. My fear was two-fold.
1. I believed that drinking a fake beer would be too hard a task for a recovering social alcoholic. To feel the comforting weight of the ice-cold bottle in my hand, to hear that glorious hiss-and-tinkle as the top is released and hits the counter, to sense the first wave of amber nectar wash over my tongue. (Hiss and tinkle? Amber wave? God, I sound like a water sports fetishist.)
I was terrified that drinking something so close and yet so far to beer could prompt a relapse.
How embarrassing would that be - to be tipped over the edge by an alcohol-free beer? That would be like Keith Richards surviving 40 years of hard drug abuse, then being found dead in his hotel room surrounded by empty bottles of Calpol and Junior Disprin.
2. I was fairly sure it would taste like piss.
I'm happy to report that I was wrong on both counts. The Cobra 0.0% looks like a beer, tastes like a beer and - judging by how sweet it tastes - can give you a gut like a beer. It did not, however, cause me to smash open the nearest drinks cabinet and hook up a bottle of Smirnoff to an IV drip.
It did make me want to go for a curry, though. So I did. There is something quite perverse about eating curry at 7.30pm. It feels slightly wrong - like if you haven't spent the previous six hours drinking, then you haven't really earned the right.
It was all very civilised, though, and we were back by 9pm, which gave us plenty of time to enjoy some Friday night TV. Now there's something to make me want to smash open the drinks cabinet.
Today has been a frustrating day so far, and proof that staying off the alcohol does not necessarily improve one's lucidity of thinking.
I hauled myself out of bed at 9am and decided - against my better judgement - to drive to Birmingham to watch Blues v Stoke (midday kick-off). Now, this is not a great idea at the best of times, unless you enjoy the spectacle of diabolical football, more fake Burberry than a Hong Kong rag market and an influx of knuckle-dragging Stokie half-wits so moronic they make the Blues faithful look like a Mensa conference. Now, add to that the prospect of heavy snow, sleet and horrible traffic. I should have stayed in bed, but decided to show my true Blue colours by making the journey.
Having reached the ground in a respectable two hours, I realised I should have shown my true Blue colours by actually READING THE SODDING FIXTURE LIST. The match kicks off tomorrow.
One U-turn, many cuss words and more than two hours later, I'm back home, writing this blog and feeling like a darned fool.
Oh well, could be worse. I could be from Stoke.
Had my first beer of 2007 last night. Alcohol-free, natch. It had been in my fridge since early January but, to be honest, I was terrified of drinking it. My fear was two-fold.
1. I believed that drinking a fake beer would be too hard a task for a recovering social alcoholic. To feel the comforting weight of the ice-cold bottle in my hand, to hear that glorious hiss-and-tinkle as the top is released and hits the counter, to sense the first wave of amber nectar wash over my tongue. (Hiss and tinkle? Amber wave? God, I sound like a water sports fetishist.)
I was terrified that drinking something so close and yet so far to beer could prompt a relapse.
How embarrassing would that be - to be tipped over the edge by an alcohol-free beer? That would be like Keith Richards surviving 40 years of hard drug abuse, then being found dead in his hotel room surrounded by empty bottles of Calpol and Junior Disprin.
2. I was fairly sure it would taste like piss.
I'm happy to report that I was wrong on both counts. The Cobra 0.0% looks like a beer, tastes like a beer and - judging by how sweet it tastes - can give you a gut like a beer. It did not, however, cause me to smash open the nearest drinks cabinet and hook up a bottle of Smirnoff to an IV drip.
It did make me want to go for a curry, though. So I did. There is something quite perverse about eating curry at 7.30pm. It feels slightly wrong - like if you haven't spent the previous six hours drinking, then you haven't really earned the right.
It was all very civilised, though, and we were back by 9pm, which gave us plenty of time to enjoy some Friday night TV. Now there's something to make me want to smash open the drinks cabinet.
Today has been a frustrating day so far, and proof that staying off the alcohol does not necessarily improve one's lucidity of thinking.
I hauled myself out of bed at 9am and decided - against my better judgement - to drive to Birmingham to watch Blues v Stoke (midday kick-off). Now, this is not a great idea at the best of times, unless you enjoy the spectacle of diabolical football, more fake Burberry than a Hong Kong rag market and an influx of knuckle-dragging Stokie half-wits so moronic they make the Blues faithful look like a Mensa conference. Now, add to that the prospect of heavy snow, sleet and horrible traffic. I should have stayed in bed, but decided to show my true Blue colours by making the journey.
Having reached the ground in a respectable two hours, I realised I should have shown my true Blue colours by actually READING THE SODDING FIXTURE LIST. The match kicks off tomorrow.
One U-turn, many cuss words and more than two hours later, I'm back home, writing this blog and feeling like a darned fool.
Oh well, could be worse. I could be from Stoke.
Thursday, 8 February 2007
Thursday February 8 - I Don't Drink Therefore I Am (A Tosser)
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been one month, seven days and 18 hours since my last drink.
Have you ever said something awful? So awful that even a fleeting memory causes your head to shake involuntarily and your shoulders to hunch up in a vain bid to erase it?
I did last night. Offered a glass of champagne by someone I had just met, I gave the following response: "No thanks. I don't drink."
No thanks. I don't drink.
If there is a more prissy phrase in the English language, I'm yet to hear it. How to tell the world - in just five short syllables - that you are both party-pooping and judgemental.
There were so many things I could have said - without lying - which would have been absolutely fine.
"No thanks, I'm not drinking tonight."
"No thanks, I'm having a few weeks off the booze."
"No thanks, I'm deliberately torturing myself for a year in order to write an attention-seeking blog."
But oh no. Not me. I prefer to sound like the class spod. The Virgin King. The starchy love child of Hyacinth Bucket and Mr Bronson.
No thanks. I don't drink.
Nyeh nyeh. Nyeh nyeh nyeh.
I'm scared of opening my mouth, now. I don't know what else is lurking inside there, ready to leap out.
Do you mind if we take things slowly?
I think that behaviour is kinda inappropriate.
Let's just hug for a while.
What would Jesus do?
Maybe I should get a gimp gag or have my jaw wired shut until the trust is re-built.
The problem, of course, is not refusing the alcohol but the implicit judgement in the phrase. The actual conversation may go:
"Would you like a glass of champagne?"
"No thanks. I don't drink."
"Oh really? Would you like a soft drink instead?"
"Yes, that would be lovely."
But the implied conversation is really:
"Would you like a glass of champagne?"
"No. I'm a reptilian control freak and I find your need to find oblivion in alcohol both socially and morally repugnant. Every night I pray for the good Lord to rain down fire upon people like you until only the pure and righteous walk the earth."
"Oh really? Would you like a soft drink instead?"
"Yes, that would be lovely."
Well, you've got to remember your manners.
To add insult to injury, the incident, henceforth known as NothanksIdontdrink-gate, took place at a party thrown to celebrate 12 years of Rawhide - a comedy club in Liverpool. The man who offered me the champagne was Rawhide founder Kevin Fearon.
So, in a nutshell, I acted like a stroppy puritan in front of a man whose business is fun and laughter. Great.
I did order a J2O to redress the balance (well, they are very sugary) but I suspect the damage was done.
NothanksIdontdrink-Gate aside, I had a good night and saw six comedians, ranging from the side-splittingly brilliant all the way down to the utterly Lenny Henry.
Staying off the booze was relatively simple, although it was interesting to see it through sober eyes for a change though. Just one observation for now, as I've gone on long enough. Did you always assume that comedy clubs put the best turn on last? Me too. Turns out we were just more pissed towards the end.
Just thought you should know.
Have you ever said something awful? So awful that even a fleeting memory causes your head to shake involuntarily and your shoulders to hunch up in a vain bid to erase it?
I did last night. Offered a glass of champagne by someone I had just met, I gave the following response: "No thanks. I don't drink."
No thanks. I don't drink.
If there is a more prissy phrase in the English language, I'm yet to hear it. How to tell the world - in just five short syllables - that you are both party-pooping and judgemental.
There were so many things I could have said - without lying - which would have been absolutely fine.
"No thanks, I'm not drinking tonight."
"No thanks, I'm having a few weeks off the booze."
"No thanks, I'm deliberately torturing myself for a year in order to write an attention-seeking blog."
But oh no. Not me. I prefer to sound like the class spod. The Virgin King. The starchy love child of Hyacinth Bucket and Mr Bronson.
No thanks. I don't drink.
Nyeh nyeh. Nyeh nyeh nyeh.
I'm scared of opening my mouth, now. I don't know what else is lurking inside there, ready to leap out.
Do you mind if we take things slowly?
I think that behaviour is kinda inappropriate.
Let's just hug for a while.
What would Jesus do?
Maybe I should get a gimp gag or have my jaw wired shut until the trust is re-built.
The problem, of course, is not refusing the alcohol but the implicit judgement in the phrase. The actual conversation may go:
"Would you like a glass of champagne?"
"No thanks. I don't drink."
"Oh really? Would you like a soft drink instead?"
"Yes, that would be lovely."
But the implied conversation is really:
"Would you like a glass of champagne?"
"No. I'm a reptilian control freak and I find your need to find oblivion in alcohol both socially and morally repugnant. Every night I pray for the good Lord to rain down fire upon people like you until only the pure and righteous walk the earth."
"Oh really? Would you like a soft drink instead?"
"Yes, that would be lovely."
Well, you've got to remember your manners.
To add insult to injury, the incident, henceforth known as NothanksIdontdrink-gate, took place at a party thrown to celebrate 12 years of Rawhide - a comedy club in Liverpool. The man who offered me the champagne was Rawhide founder Kevin Fearon.
So, in a nutshell, I acted like a stroppy puritan in front of a man whose business is fun and laughter. Great.
I did order a J2O to redress the balance (well, they are very sugary) but I suspect the damage was done.
NothanksIdontdrink-Gate aside, I had a good night and saw six comedians, ranging from the side-splittingly brilliant all the way down to the utterly Lenny Henry.
Staying off the booze was relatively simple, although it was interesting to see it through sober eyes for a change though. Just one observation for now, as I've gone on long enough. Did you always assume that comedy clubs put the best turn on last? Me too. Turns out we were just more pissed towards the end.
Just thought you should know.
Monday, 5 February 2007
Monday February 5 - A Sober Stag Do
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been one month, four days and 21 hours since my last drink.
Warning: Some of the content of this blog entry is a bit colourful. Mum, you might want to go and make some marmalade at this point.
So, like Laura Ingalls Wilder's bottom, I remain firmly on the wagon. This is no mean feat. A proper stag weekend is the ultimate test for the budding tee-totaller. Not including close family bereavement or accidentally seeing Vanessa Feltz in the nuddy, obviously.
A stag do is the British drinking culture in its purest form. It is the very essence of binge. It is the B of the Bleuurgh. It does not pretend to be anything other than a 48-hour drinking session, interrupted only by occasional food breaks and the short stroll from Irish theme pub to ropey lapdancing bar*.
My spoilt generation may not have spilled its blood on Flanders fields or the beaches of Normandy, nor did we man the barricades in 1960s Paris. All we can tell our grandchildren about our great European adventures is how we puked in Prague, binged in Berlin, and were broken in Bratislava. The only time we've had nothing to offer but "blood, sweat, toil and tears" was on the lavatory after a particularly heavy session.
With this in mind, I approached the BEF (Brummie Expeditionary Force) trip to Barcelona, held in honour of Matt Cumbi's nuptials, with much trepidation. Anyone can stick to soft drinks at a cosy dinner party, I thought, or even a night out on the town. Just a few hours of purgatory, then home to a comfy bed. But how would my sobriety cope with being miles from home on a trip with little point other than massive consumption of booze (and, obviously, to celebrate a lifetime of friendship with the groom, essential rite of passage, blah blah, yaddah yaddah)?
The answer was, surprisingly, pretty darned well.
Rather than give a linear account of the weekend, allow me to present my experiences in a more academic fashion. As one of the few men to have witnessed a stag do through single vision, I will use my experiences to either confirm or dispel popular some popular nuggets of received wisdom about stag nights or similar mammoth booze-ups.
Received wisdom: Remaining sober during a stag weekend is boring.
Verdict: Fiction.
I can honesty state that I had a fantastic weekend. As usual, the hardest part was refusing the first few drinks. Knowing you are the black sheep among the "Sixteen large cervezas et uno fizzy water s'il vous plait, Pedro" can be a very lonely place. Particularly when Pedro insists on emphasising your second-class citizen status by not bothering to bring the water out until at least the third time of asking.
However, as per previous nights out, staying booze-free becomes easier as the night wears on. Within a few hours, there seems little point in drinking alcohol as it would present an unwinnable game of catch-up. Like watching Michelle McManus versus Karen Carpenter on Celebrity Fit Club.
Instead, you learn to make the most of the entertainment on offer. Just as it would be unfair to portray all tee-totallers as earnest dullards, it is unfair to claim that all drunks instantly become boorish louts.
They are still people. They still talk, they still debate, they still laugh and sing and tell jokes. My friends are great company, even when in drink.
They don't become boorish louts until, ooh, at least half past nine.
However, on both nights I stayed out until around 4am, which means I must have been having fun. This was longer than many of the drinkers managed, particularly on the Friday night (when half the party were in bed by 2am, the groom retired at midnight, and Shub appeared to be rushing back to catch the Spanish equivalent of Countdown).
Received wisdom: Alcohol and stag parties are a recipe for aggressive behaviour.
Verdict: Fiction. Sort of.
We did experience some aggression, but only as victims, not perpetrators. Bizarrely, those dishing it out were not other British stag parties or even the local hombres, sick with envy at our chiselled good looks and effortless style.
No, the only aggro we encountered was from the hookers who gather at the seedy end of La Ramblas, the slightly over-rated focal point of Barcelona. (It's a bit like Solihull Indoor Market, but long and thin. And not indoors.)
If that doesn't sound too scary, then all I can say is: you didn't see the size of the hookers. I think I now finally understand where the rugby union term comes from.
These girls were not the heroin-addled waifs you might see on a street corner in Britain, listlessly puffing on a ciggie and waiting for the next beating from an inadequate accountant while the bitter wind whips around their bare, purple legs.
No, Ramblas hookers are beefy African girls who dress for the weather and look like the result of an experiment involving Geoff Capes and the Williams sisters. Never mind Roxanne you don't have put on the red light. Try Roseanne.
They latch onto you by grabbing your arm - or worse - and making a series of increasingly terrifying propositions, that usually start with "let's go for a walk" to...well, let's just say I've been on plenty of walks and none of them have led to that.
As a sober man, I found it relatively simple to avoid them. Avoid eye contact, don't answer their questions, and keep walking. Some of my fellow stags learned this the hard way, and were involved in some heated exchanges. My favourite was this:
Hooker: "Hey, you, I suck your dick!"
Don: "No thanks, luv."
Hooker: "I suck your dick!"
Don: "No."
Hooker: "I suck your dick!"
Don: "No. Piss off."
Hooker: "You are racist."
I love the fact that this woman was so quick to play the race card, mainly because it'd be a head-scratcher for any Guardian readers who happened by. What should they do? Engage her services and be accused of exploiting wimmin. Refuse it and be called a racist. I imagine they'd try to find an acceptable middle ground. Accept the woman's kind offer, perhaps, but make absolutely sure she was working under an official Fair Trade agreement.
My second favourite exchange was the straight-talking gal who spied one of the, ahem, larger members of the group and shouted: "Hey, Fatty, wanna blow job?"
Now I'm no expert on prostitution, but I'm thinking she may need to refine her patter if she wants to make something of herself in that game.
And what does one reply? The standard response - "I'm big-boned, actually" - sounds like an acceptance.
Received wisdom: Drunk people are repetitive.
Verdict: Fact.
Harsh but true. However, I refer you to my earlier comments about still having a good time.
The repetition thing is mildly annoying, but it can also be very entertaining. Particularly if you are not the victim. I was standing near one stag as he worked his silver-tongued magic on a British girl in a pub. I was only half-listening, but his patter appeared to go something like this:
Stag: "So where you from?"
Girl: "Manchester."
Stag: "Manchester?"
Girl: "Yes."
Stag: "Whereabouts in Manchester?"
Girl: "Moss Side."
Stag: "Oh right. Is that in Manchester, then?"
Girl: "Yes."
Stag: "You sound like a Manc."
Girl: "Yes, I come from Manchester."
Stag: "Do you?"
Girl: "Yes."
Stag: "Whereabouts in Manchester you from?"
Girl: "Moss Side."
Stag: "Oh, yeah. I think I met someone from Moss Side earlier. Will? Have you met Claire? She's from...sorry, luv, where are you from again?"
Repeat in this vain for about an hour. No, he didn't pull her.
Received wisdom: Drunk people whiff a bit.
Verdict: Fact.
Again, harsh but true. However, they don't smell of what you might expect. They don't waft clouds of pungent alcohol, like a cartoon boozehound. They actually smell like rancid milk. Weird.
They also fart. A lot.
Received wisdom: Drunk people are vulnerable to crime.
Verdict: Fiction.
The cancelled flight chaos at Barcelona airport gave British travellers the chance to indulge two of their biggest passions: queueing and moaning. Several groups shared horror stories about bag-snatchers, pickpockets and muggers. Thankfully, my group suffered no such fate, despite being pissed for most of the weekend.
This may have been dumb luck, or perhaps God was smiling on us. I suspect, however, a simpler explanation. One drunk is perhaps easy meat to a mugger. Fifteen drunk brummies, however, are like a well-oiled war machine.
Received wisdom: You don't need alcohol to have a good time.
Verdict: Fiction.
No stag do would function without buckets of alcohol. I was able to have a good time sober, but only because I was effectively riding the coat tails of my drunken pals. If we had all been sober, it would have been much less fun all round. So, a sincere and cheesey thank you to all the stags for providing the entertainment and destroyed livers while I minced around with my fizzy water. I salute you, particularly Raj, who has been bellyaching for a shout out in this blog since day one.
Oh yes, nearly forgot. You also definitely need alcohol to have a good time in the Baja Beach Bar, the Club Tropicana-themed monstrosity at which we dined on the Saturday night. It is too traumatic for me to describe here, so let's just say a bottle of tequila per head should get you through the night.
* Point of interest. The phrase "lapdancing bar" is also the Catalan word for "brothel, where no lapdancing whatsoever takes place but full sex costs 100 euros". At least, it is if you are a taxi driver who presumably gets a commission for every car load of stags he drops off at said establishment. We made our excuses and left. Sorry mum, but I did tell you to go and make some marmalade.
Warning: Some of the content of this blog entry is a bit colourful. Mum, you might want to go and make some marmalade at this point.
So, like Laura Ingalls Wilder's bottom, I remain firmly on the wagon. This is no mean feat. A proper stag weekend is the ultimate test for the budding tee-totaller. Not including close family bereavement or accidentally seeing Vanessa Feltz in the nuddy, obviously.
A stag do is the British drinking culture in its purest form. It is the very essence of binge. It is the B of the Bleuurgh. It does not pretend to be anything other than a 48-hour drinking session, interrupted only by occasional food breaks and the short stroll from Irish theme pub to ropey lapdancing bar*.
My spoilt generation may not have spilled its blood on Flanders fields or the beaches of Normandy, nor did we man the barricades in 1960s Paris. All we can tell our grandchildren about our great European adventures is how we puked in Prague, binged in Berlin, and were broken in Bratislava. The only time we've had nothing to offer but "blood, sweat, toil and tears" was on the lavatory after a particularly heavy session.
With this in mind, I approached the BEF (Brummie Expeditionary Force) trip to Barcelona, held in honour of Matt Cumbi's nuptials, with much trepidation. Anyone can stick to soft drinks at a cosy dinner party, I thought, or even a night out on the town. Just a few hours of purgatory, then home to a comfy bed. But how would my sobriety cope with being miles from home on a trip with little point other than massive consumption of booze (and, obviously, to celebrate a lifetime of friendship with the groom, essential rite of passage, blah blah, yaddah yaddah)?
The answer was, surprisingly, pretty darned well.
Rather than give a linear account of the weekend, allow me to present my experiences in a more academic fashion. As one of the few men to have witnessed a stag do through single vision, I will use my experiences to either confirm or dispel popular some popular nuggets of received wisdom about stag nights or similar mammoth booze-ups.
Received wisdom: Remaining sober during a stag weekend is boring.
Verdict: Fiction.
I can honesty state that I had a fantastic weekend. As usual, the hardest part was refusing the first few drinks. Knowing you are the black sheep among the "Sixteen large cervezas et uno fizzy water s'il vous plait, Pedro" can be a very lonely place. Particularly when Pedro insists on emphasising your second-class citizen status by not bothering to bring the water out until at least the third time of asking.
However, as per previous nights out, staying booze-free becomes easier as the night wears on. Within a few hours, there seems little point in drinking alcohol as it would present an unwinnable game of catch-up. Like watching Michelle McManus versus Karen Carpenter on Celebrity Fit Club.
Instead, you learn to make the most of the entertainment on offer. Just as it would be unfair to portray all tee-totallers as earnest dullards, it is unfair to claim that all drunks instantly become boorish louts.
They are still people. They still talk, they still debate, they still laugh and sing and tell jokes. My friends are great company, even when in drink.
They don't become boorish louts until, ooh, at least half past nine.
However, on both nights I stayed out until around 4am, which means I must have been having fun. This was longer than many of the drinkers managed, particularly on the Friday night (when half the party were in bed by 2am, the groom retired at midnight, and Shub appeared to be rushing back to catch the Spanish equivalent of Countdown).
Received wisdom: Alcohol and stag parties are a recipe for aggressive behaviour.
Verdict: Fiction. Sort of.
We did experience some aggression, but only as victims, not perpetrators. Bizarrely, those dishing it out were not other British stag parties or even the local hombres, sick with envy at our chiselled good looks and effortless style.
No, the only aggro we encountered was from the hookers who gather at the seedy end of La Ramblas, the slightly over-rated focal point of Barcelona. (It's a bit like Solihull Indoor Market, but long and thin. And not indoors.)
If that doesn't sound too scary, then all I can say is: you didn't see the size of the hookers. I think I now finally understand where the rugby union term comes from.
These girls were not the heroin-addled waifs you might see on a street corner in Britain, listlessly puffing on a ciggie and waiting for the next beating from an inadequate accountant while the bitter wind whips around their bare, purple legs.
No, Ramblas hookers are beefy African girls who dress for the weather and look like the result of an experiment involving Geoff Capes and the Williams sisters. Never mind Roxanne you don't have put on the red light. Try Roseanne.
They latch onto you by grabbing your arm - or worse - and making a series of increasingly terrifying propositions, that usually start with "let's go for a walk" to...well, let's just say I've been on plenty of walks and none of them have led to that.
As a sober man, I found it relatively simple to avoid them. Avoid eye contact, don't answer their questions, and keep walking. Some of my fellow stags learned this the hard way, and were involved in some heated exchanges. My favourite was this:
Hooker: "Hey, you, I suck your dick!"
Don: "No thanks, luv."
Hooker: "I suck your dick!"
Don: "No."
Hooker: "I suck your dick!"
Don: "No. Piss off."
Hooker: "You are racist."
I love the fact that this woman was so quick to play the race card, mainly because it'd be a head-scratcher for any Guardian readers who happened by. What should they do? Engage her services and be accused of exploiting wimmin. Refuse it and be called a racist. I imagine they'd try to find an acceptable middle ground. Accept the woman's kind offer, perhaps, but make absolutely sure she was working under an official Fair Trade agreement.
My second favourite exchange was the straight-talking gal who spied one of the, ahem, larger members of the group and shouted: "Hey, Fatty, wanna blow job?"
Now I'm no expert on prostitution, but I'm thinking she may need to refine her patter if she wants to make something of herself in that game.
And what does one reply? The standard response - "I'm big-boned, actually" - sounds like an acceptance.
Received wisdom: Drunk people are repetitive.
Verdict: Fact.
Harsh but true. However, I refer you to my earlier comments about still having a good time.
The repetition thing is mildly annoying, but it can also be very entertaining. Particularly if you are not the victim. I was standing near one stag as he worked his silver-tongued magic on a British girl in a pub. I was only half-listening, but his patter appeared to go something like this:
Stag: "So where you from?"
Girl: "Manchester."
Stag: "Manchester?"
Girl: "Yes."
Stag: "Whereabouts in Manchester?"
Girl: "Moss Side."
Stag: "Oh right. Is that in Manchester, then?"
Girl: "Yes."
Stag: "You sound like a Manc."
Girl: "Yes, I come from Manchester."
Stag: "Do you?"
Girl: "Yes."
Stag: "Whereabouts in Manchester you from?"
Girl: "Moss Side."
Stag: "Oh, yeah. I think I met someone from Moss Side earlier. Will? Have you met Claire? She's from...sorry, luv, where are you from again?"
Repeat in this vain for about an hour. No, he didn't pull her.
Received wisdom: Drunk people whiff a bit.
Verdict: Fact.
Again, harsh but true. However, they don't smell of what you might expect. They don't waft clouds of pungent alcohol, like a cartoon boozehound. They actually smell like rancid milk. Weird.
They also fart. A lot.
Received wisdom: Drunk people are vulnerable to crime.
Verdict: Fiction.
The cancelled flight chaos at Barcelona airport gave British travellers the chance to indulge two of their biggest passions: queueing and moaning. Several groups shared horror stories about bag-snatchers, pickpockets and muggers. Thankfully, my group suffered no such fate, despite being pissed for most of the weekend.
This may have been dumb luck, or perhaps God was smiling on us. I suspect, however, a simpler explanation. One drunk is perhaps easy meat to a mugger. Fifteen drunk brummies, however, are like a well-oiled war machine.
Received wisdom: You don't need alcohol to have a good time.
Verdict: Fiction.
No stag do would function without buckets of alcohol. I was able to have a good time sober, but only because I was effectively riding the coat tails of my drunken pals. If we had all been sober, it would have been much less fun all round. So, a sincere and cheesey thank you to all the stags for providing the entertainment and destroyed livers while I minced around with my fizzy water. I salute you, particularly Raj, who has been bellyaching for a shout out in this blog since day one.
Oh yes, nearly forgot. You also definitely need alcohol to have a good time in the Baja Beach Bar, the Club Tropicana-themed monstrosity at which we dined on the Saturday night. It is too traumatic for me to describe here, so let's just say a bottle of tequila per head should get you through the night.
* Point of interest. The phrase "lapdancing bar" is also the Catalan word for "brothel, where no lapdancing whatsoever takes place but full sex costs 100 euros". At least, it is if you are a taxi driver who presumably gets a commission for every car load of stags he drops off at said establishment. We made our excuses and left. Sorry mum, but I did tell you to go and make some marmalade.
Sunday, 4 February 2007
Sunday February 4 - Look Mum, No Hangover! (No plane either)
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been one month, three days and 20 hours since my last drink.
Senors and senoras, it give me muchos pleasure to announce that - against all odds - I have just returned from a stag weekend in Barcelona without drinking a drop of booze. Although, due to extended and close proximity to 14 serious caners, and Shub, I did breath in a lot of fumes.
Despite being stone cold sober throughout, I had a top weekend and was out until around 4am on both Friday and Saturday nights.
Consequently, I am totally shattered and unable to write my blog - or even my "blob", as one of my fellow stags (Phil) earnestly called it. This fatigue was compounded by easyJet's decision to cancel my flight back to Liverpool due to a few wisps of fog. They did offer me a seat on the Barcelona to Newcastle service, leaving Monday afternoon. Which was awfully sweet of the orange-clad money-grabbing mingebags, but I decided to pay through the nose for a KLM flight via Amsterdam, arriving in Manchester tonight.
Got loads to write about the weekend, but will do so tomorrow when the power of lucid(ish) thought returns.
Senors and senoras, it give me muchos pleasure to announce that - against all odds - I have just returned from a stag weekend in Barcelona without drinking a drop of booze. Although, due to extended and close proximity to 14 serious caners, and Shub, I did breath in a lot of fumes.
Despite being stone cold sober throughout, I had a top weekend and was out until around 4am on both Friday and Saturday nights.
Consequently, I am totally shattered and unable to write my blog - or even my "blob", as one of my fellow stags (Phil) earnestly called it. This fatigue was compounded by easyJet's decision to cancel my flight back to Liverpool due to a few wisps of fog. They did offer me a seat on the Barcelona to Newcastle service, leaving Monday afternoon. Which was awfully sweet of the orange-clad money-grabbing mingebags, but I decided to pay through the nose for a KLM flight via Amsterdam, arriving in Manchester tonight.
Got loads to write about the weekend, but will do so tomorrow when the power of lucid(ish) thought returns.
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