Sunday March 11 - Cash'n'Curry

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been two months, ten days and 21 hours since my last drink.

The danger of ridding ourselves of one addiction is that we replace it with another.

Elton John, for example, kicked his cocaine habit but turned to bulimia.
Jack Osborne also beat drug addiction (he wasn't quite as hardcore as dad Ozzy - I think he was caning Junior Disprin or Calpol or something) but is now hooked on extreme sports.
Fortunately, Robbie Williams is no longer hooked on cocaine and alcohol. Unfortunately, he is now addicted to coffee, fags, sleeping pills, self-pity and making terrible, terrible records. God, I miss coked-up Robbie.

I thought I had escaped the perils of displacement addiction. Alas, I may have thunk too soon. I strongly suspect that I may have replaced the crutch of alcohol with a double crutch: Curry and Cash. Don't worry, I'm not about to confess to some sick 1980s-based fantasy involving ex-Tory egg-spurner turned steamy novellist Edwina Curry and crowd-climbing Wimbledon champ Pat Cash. Although there's a thought...

No, I mean I have become desperate to eat curry and spend cash.

For the curry part, I blame my fellow Blues season-ticket holders. Last Sunday they mentioned, in passing, that we might go for a curry after the Birmingham-Derby game on Friday night. To them, it was a throwaway line. To me, it was a lifeline. Curry may not get you drunk but - if you choose the right one - it does make you sweat, swear, cry, vomit and wake up in the morning with aching guts and a strong sense of regret. For a man without drink, it is the next best thing. To add to the realism of the pub experience, curry is generally consumed in hot, smoky dives with bad decor and a faint sense of menace. Perfect.

Alas, after Friday night's match, the curry plan appeared to have been forgotten faster than a politician's promise. Some of the group cried off sick, and the rest were happy to celebrate Blues' 1-0 victory by sinking pints in The Old Crown (which is supposed to be the oldest building in Birmingham, and comes complete with inflatable pints of Guinness hanging from the rafters, just like they had in ye olden dayes).
To be fair, it was good fun. My only slight issue came when I ordered a coffee. To reflect my staunch heterosexuality, I was hoping for a mug, preferably chipped. Instead, I was presented with a delicate little tray, complete with a silver coffee pot, a small milk jug and tiny pot of sugar.
Drinking coffee in a post-match football boozer is bad enough, without being made to feel like you should be wearing white gloves, a frilly dress and inviting all your dolls and teddies around for a tea party.

I drove back to Liverpool in the wee hours of Saturday and tried to forget about curry. Anyone who has ever grieved, however, will know that the sense of loss is never too far from the surface. You try to go about your business as normal, but just a waft of garlic can set you off.

A few hours ago, I cracked and went for a cheeky rogan josh down the road. Now I feel unsettled, disappointed and certain that I'll have a bad night's sleep. In other words, like any other Sunday after a weekend of alcohol abuse. See, I told you curry was the next best thing.

My other displacement addiction - spending cash - I blame on nobody but myself.
I'll spare you the gory details, but let's just say that Gemma and I went to the Wirral today for nothing more than a nice walk along the promenade at New Brighton.
Somehow, I returned with a very shiny set of golf clubs. As a displacement activity for boozing, this is ideal. Not only did spending the money give me a similarly giddy feeliing to drinking, but if I were to describe my new clubs, I could be as crushingly dull as any boozed-up bar fly.

So I won't.

Oh, OK then, it's basically a set of steel-shafted, cavity-backed Adams, but the three and four irons are hybrids, which are a lot more forgiving if you're....