My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been three months, 28 days and 16 hours since my last drink.
Derby County have just lost to Crystal Palace by 2-0. Not something I'd normally rush upstairs to blog about, but it means that Birmingham City have been promoted to the Premiership.
Woo-hoo!
For my non-drinking purposes, this was the best possible way for it to happen. Had we won promotion "live" at St Andrews, I'm not sure I could have resisted the temptation to suspend tee-totalism for the day and go and get bladdered at the Adam and Eve.
Instead, I learned of this glorious moment in my club's history through the slightly less exhilarating medium of, er, Teletext.
So, great for me, boring for nearly all other Blues (and Sunderland, who are also promoted) fans. Great scheduling decision by the league chiefs.
Last time Blues won promotion to the Premiership, via a play-off final penalty shoot-out, I tried to buy champagne for everyone in the Dovedale Towers. Fortunately for my wallet, they didn't stock it. Nowadays, as the ridiculously named Alma de Cuba, they would stock champagne, but almost certainly refuse to sell it to a sweaty football fan. Which is even more fortunate for my wallet.
This time, although it would be great to crack open the bubbly on such a boiling day, I am finding it relatively easy to stick to the soft stuff.
In tribute to Crystal Palace chairman Simon Jordan's face, I'm simply drinking orange.
K.R.O.
Sunday, 29 April 2007
April 29 - The Eye Of The Storm
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been three months, 28 days and eight hours since my last drink.
I went into the eye of the non-drinking storm last night. And it wasn't pretty.
Time: 2300 hours.
Day: Saturday, April 28.
Location: Liverpool, England.
Venue: "Boogie Nights"
First impression: So this is what Hell's like.
Considered verdict: Even Satan himself could not dream of something so cruel.
To be fair, the evening had started very pleasantly. Ten of us went to a French restaurant in town to celebrate Gem's birthday, which was yesterday. And tres bien it was too.
Afterwards, some of the ladies expressed a desire to dance, and suggested going to Mathew Street - the beating heart (or, more accurately, the pulsating liver) of Liverpool's party district.
Determined to follow Gem's wishes and challenge my pre-conception that you really need to booze to enjoy cheesy town centre venues on a Saturday night, I agreed.
That was my first mistake.
They say that, in battle, the first thing that hits you is the smell.
Well, on Mathew Street, the first thing that hits you is the cowboy hats.
A sea of pink cowboy hats, perched atop the heads of countless hen parties as they squawk and flap and pointlessly scratch around. The pink hats are usually teamed with a white t-shirt bearing the photo of the bride-to-be as a cute little girl. Sadly, the face of said cute little girl is usually distorted after being stretched across her now adult chest, which weighs in at a hefty 52HH and is bouncing uncontrollably as she attempts to pole dance around a lamppost to a song that was almost certainly in the hit film Coyote Ugly.
In the faces of my group I saw panic, confusion, terror.
Their dumbstruck expressions seemed to say: "This can't be right. Thirty minutes ago I was eating crayfish and clam risotto, served by a genuine Frenchman, just 30 metres from here. How did this happen?"
In panic, I led the retreat into a basement bar, called Boogie Nights. I think my logic may have been: "I liked Boogie Nights the film. I liked Boogie Nights the song. So why shouldn't I like Boogie Nights the bar?"
That was my second mistake.
So, why didn't I like Boogie Nights the bar? Perhaps it was the way they served drinks from kiddies' beakers made of thick, fluorescent plastic. Perhaps it was the fact that Dad's Army was playing on TVs. Perhaps it was the fact that we were the only people there not dressed as a St Trinian's girl, or Wonderwoman, or - naturellement - in a pink cowboy hat.
But mainly it was the dancing. The entire place was one big dancefloor, with nowhere to hide. You couldn't sit, you couldn't speak. There was simply no option but to nervously jig from foot to foot, rictus grin in place, pretending that dancing to Dolly Parton's Nine To Five is the most natural thing in the world to us.
Even the large pillars where men can usually hide in such situations had been commandeered by yet more 20-stone wannabe pole dancers. Aside from anything else, surely that is a health and safety hazard?
Mercifully, we escaped after one drink and headed for the relative sanctity of the Living Room, but those images will remain seared into my memory for life. The experience made me realise that my non-drinking achievements thus far - local pubs, dinner parties, holidays, the occasional stag do - are minimal. If I was truly hardcore about this project, I should be braving Mathew Street (or Broad Street, or Leicester Square, or Market Square...) every week.
In terms of masochism - for this challenge is slightly masochistic - I would suggest that I have so far volunteered for a gentle spanking. To venture into a British "party district" each week, while remaining sober, would be like asking to be thrashed with bamboo canes by three angry Japanese PoW camp guards.
I may be daft, but I'm not suicidal.
I went into the eye of the non-drinking storm last night. And it wasn't pretty.
Time: 2300 hours.
Day: Saturday, April 28.
Location: Liverpool, England.
Venue: "Boogie Nights"
First impression: So this is what Hell's like.
Considered verdict: Even Satan himself could not dream of something so cruel.
To be fair, the evening had started very pleasantly. Ten of us went to a French restaurant in town to celebrate Gem's birthday, which was yesterday. And tres bien it was too.
Afterwards, some of the ladies expressed a desire to dance, and suggested going to Mathew Street - the beating heart (or, more accurately, the pulsating liver) of Liverpool's party district.
Determined to follow Gem's wishes and challenge my pre-conception that you really need to booze to enjoy cheesy town centre venues on a Saturday night, I agreed.
That was my first mistake.
They say that, in battle, the first thing that hits you is the smell.
Well, on Mathew Street, the first thing that hits you is the cowboy hats.
A sea of pink cowboy hats, perched atop the heads of countless hen parties as they squawk and flap and pointlessly scratch around. The pink hats are usually teamed with a white t-shirt bearing the photo of the bride-to-be as a cute little girl. Sadly, the face of said cute little girl is usually distorted after being stretched across her now adult chest, which weighs in at a hefty 52HH and is bouncing uncontrollably as she attempts to pole dance around a lamppost to a song that was almost certainly in the hit film Coyote Ugly.
In the faces of my group I saw panic, confusion, terror.
Their dumbstruck expressions seemed to say: "This can't be right. Thirty minutes ago I was eating crayfish and clam risotto, served by a genuine Frenchman, just 30 metres from here. How did this happen?"
In panic, I led the retreat into a basement bar, called Boogie Nights. I think my logic may have been: "I liked Boogie Nights the film. I liked Boogie Nights the song. So why shouldn't I like Boogie Nights the bar?"
That was my second mistake.
So, why didn't I like Boogie Nights the bar? Perhaps it was the way they served drinks from kiddies' beakers made of thick, fluorescent plastic. Perhaps it was the fact that Dad's Army was playing on TVs. Perhaps it was the fact that we were the only people there not dressed as a St Trinian's girl, or Wonderwoman, or - naturellement - in a pink cowboy hat.
But mainly it was the dancing. The entire place was one big dancefloor, with nowhere to hide. You couldn't sit, you couldn't speak. There was simply no option but to nervously jig from foot to foot, rictus grin in place, pretending that dancing to Dolly Parton's Nine To Five is the most natural thing in the world to us.
Even the large pillars where men can usually hide in such situations had been commandeered by yet more 20-stone wannabe pole dancers. Aside from anything else, surely that is a health and safety hazard?
Mercifully, we escaped after one drink and headed for the relative sanctity of the Living Room, but those images will remain seared into my memory for life. The experience made me realise that my non-drinking achievements thus far - local pubs, dinner parties, holidays, the occasional stag do - are minimal. If I was truly hardcore about this project, I should be braving Mathew Street (or Broad Street, or Leicester Square, or Market Square...) every week.
In terms of masochism - for this challenge is slightly masochistic - I would suggest that I have so far volunteered for a gentle spanking. To venture into a British "party district" each week, while remaining sober, would be like asking to be thrashed with bamboo canes by three angry Japanese PoW camp guards.
I may be daft, but I'm not suicidal.
Friday April 27 - Thank Grolsch It's Friday
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been three months, 26 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
The Friday night thirst is back with a vengeance.
Nearly four booze-free months had effectively broken my previously held belief that the end of the working week should be marked with a hefty quantity of strong lager.
Tonight, however, I really feel like I deserve it, following a relentless tide of news on my patch. If I do manage to get through this year without a drink, it will be no thanks to the people of north-west England and north Wales, who keep doing things which I have to write stories about.
If only everyone would stop:
A. Murdering each other.
B. Dying early and/or in bizarre circumstances.
C. Owning and/or beng savaged by illegal dogs.
D. Showing pictures of decapitated motorcyclist's heads.*
...then my life would much less stressful.
To be fair, I much prefer busy weeks, so I'm not really complaining. However, there is something about a really hard week at work and a sunny Friday evening that makes a few pints taste so damn good. I really do miss them.
* OK, so only one person has done this, namely the chief constable of North Wales Police, and it was only the one head. But it did create a lot of work
The Friday night thirst is back with a vengeance.
Nearly four booze-free months had effectively broken my previously held belief that the end of the working week should be marked with a hefty quantity of strong lager.
Tonight, however, I really feel like I deserve it, following a relentless tide of news on my patch. If I do manage to get through this year without a drink, it will be no thanks to the people of north-west England and north Wales, who keep doing things which I have to write stories about.
If only everyone would stop:
A. Murdering each other.
B. Dying early and/or in bizarre circumstances.
C. Owning and/or beng savaged by illegal dogs.
D. Showing pictures of decapitated motorcyclist's heads.*
...then my life would much less stressful.
To be fair, I much prefer busy weeks, so I'm not really complaining. However, there is something about a really hard week at work and a sunny Friday evening that makes a few pints taste so damn good. I really do miss them.
* OK, so only one person has done this, namely the chief constable of North Wales Police, and it was only the one head. But it did create a lot of work
Tuesday April 24 - New Job
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been three months, 23 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
Fairly momentous news. I handed in my notice today and will leave the Press Association at the end of May, to be the news editor of the Daily Post Wales.
This has nothing to do with my booze-free project, so I won't bang on about it for too long here.
I will, however, offer the following alcohol-related analogy to explain why I'm leaving a job I love in order to take on a post that will doubtless offer more stress, harder work, longer hours and a 140-mile daily commute from Liverpool to Llandudno Junction.
My current job feels like being in my local pub. It is safe, comfortable, and a very pleasant place to while away the time. I know everyone, and they know me. I am familiar with every square inch of it, from which areas get too smokey to which hand dryer in the toilets works best. When I go there, I am guaranteed a nice time. But not a classic night which will live in the memory forever.
Leaving the safety of one's local pub during a night out can be dangerous. You may end up in a Riley's pool hall, for example, or an Australian themed bar. On the other hand, you could also find yourself in a fantastic new place with better music, beer and atmosphere than your local could ever hope to offer. But you've got to venture out of your safety zone to find out.
I don't want my career to be "a decent night down the local, not much happened but we had a good laugh". I want it to be a classic night out, which I'll remember forever.
I believe my best chance of that classic night out is to head for Llandudno Junction.
Now there's a sentence I never expected to write.
Fairly momentous news. I handed in my notice today and will leave the Press Association at the end of May, to be the news editor of the Daily Post Wales.
This has nothing to do with my booze-free project, so I won't bang on about it for too long here.
I will, however, offer the following alcohol-related analogy to explain why I'm leaving a job I love in order to take on a post that will doubtless offer more stress, harder work, longer hours and a 140-mile daily commute from Liverpool to Llandudno Junction.
My current job feels like being in my local pub. It is safe, comfortable, and a very pleasant place to while away the time. I know everyone, and they know me. I am familiar with every square inch of it, from which areas get too smokey to which hand dryer in the toilets works best. When I go there, I am guaranteed a nice time. But not a classic night which will live in the memory forever.
Leaving the safety of one's local pub during a night out can be dangerous. You may end up in a Riley's pool hall, for example, or an Australian themed bar. On the other hand, you could also find yourself in a fantastic new place with better music, beer and atmosphere than your local could ever hope to offer. But you've got to venture out of your safety zone to find out.
I don't want my career to be "a decent night down the local, not much happened but we had a good laugh". I want it to be a classic night out, which I'll remember forever.
I believe my best chance of that classic night out is to head for Llandudno Junction.
Now there's a sentence I never expected to write.
Sunday, 22 April 2007
Sunday April 22 - Going the distance
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been three months, 21 days and 16 hours since my last drink.
My back has gone.
There's an old codger's saying, if ever there was one.
No 30-year-old man should ever have to announce that his back has gone, never mind a 30-year-old man who has given up booze and therefore deserves never to get ill again.
Maybe the lack of booze was the problem. Maybe a lifetime's drinking slowly replaced my spinal fluid with strong lager, and for the last three and a half months the reserves have been drying up and now my back bones are grating together.
I'm no doctor, but that sounds feasible to me. I should be surrounded by saucy nurses (is there any other kind?) feeding me Kronenburg until the fluid balance is restored. But am I receiving such basic treatment from our wonderful NHS? Fat chance. Not in Blair's Britain, matey.
Whatever the reason, it "went" on Saturday morning. I'd like to claim this medical trauma occurred as I leapt to pluck a small child from in front of a speeding car, or at least during a Rocky V-style training run, in which I helped a peasant to pick up their overturned cart.
Alas, I suspect (by which I mean I know) that it happened after I leapt off the sofa and made a playfully abusive gesture to Gem. The gesture may have involved (by which I mean did involve) bending over and making my buttocks "talk" to her. For those of you reading this with your Monday morning coffee and muffin, please rest assured that I was clothed.
The misery caused by my injury was only compounded when I watched the London Marathon footage on TV today. It has been comforting to know that for the past few months a fair few people were on self-imposed booze bans as they prepared for the big run. Even though I did not know any personally, these imaginary tee-total comrades gave me strength. However, they are all gone now, and will surely be spending all that sponsorship money on champagne before you can say "Cancer Research? Never heard of 'em".
So it's just me left. Me, the God-botherers, the pregnants, and the terminally unsociable. I don't even get to dress up as a pantomime horse, or be interviewed by Colin Jackson. So this is how it feels to be lonely.
Speaking of pregnants (although not necessarily tee-total pregnants), my sister Charlotte came to visit last night with husband Jim and their two-year-old son, Bay.
It was lovely to see them - and not least because their visit gave me the perfect excuse not to go to a German beer festival in Wavertree, to which Jimmy and Gary were trying to tempt me.
However, the sight of a young family yet again served as a brutal reminder that, if Gem and I decide to have kids, I may well be wasting one of my last years of freedom in pointless tee-totalism. Char and Jim's sizeable family car was absolutely packed with bags. They were mainly pastel-coloured and not one of them contained alcohol.
The future's dry. The future's orange (squash).
So why am I burdening myself and destroying my social life before I have to? Probably the same reason marathon runners do: Stubborn pride, a sense of challenge, and the chance to feel the unmistakable glow of inner-smugness.
And if someone gives me a foil blanket at 0001 on January 1st 2008, it will all have been worthwhile.
My back has gone.
There's an old codger's saying, if ever there was one.
No 30-year-old man should ever have to announce that his back has gone, never mind a 30-year-old man who has given up booze and therefore deserves never to get ill again.
Maybe the lack of booze was the problem. Maybe a lifetime's drinking slowly replaced my spinal fluid with strong lager, and for the last three and a half months the reserves have been drying up and now my back bones are grating together.
I'm no doctor, but that sounds feasible to me. I should be surrounded by saucy nurses (is there any other kind?) feeding me Kronenburg until the fluid balance is restored. But am I receiving such basic treatment from our wonderful NHS? Fat chance. Not in Blair's Britain, matey.
Whatever the reason, it "went" on Saturday morning. I'd like to claim this medical trauma occurred as I leapt to pluck a small child from in front of a speeding car, or at least during a Rocky V-style training run, in which I helped a peasant to pick up their overturned cart.
Alas, I suspect (by which I mean I know) that it happened after I leapt off the sofa and made a playfully abusive gesture to Gem. The gesture may have involved (by which I mean did involve) bending over and making my buttocks "talk" to her. For those of you reading this with your Monday morning coffee and muffin, please rest assured that I was clothed.
The misery caused by my injury was only compounded when I watched the London Marathon footage on TV today. It has been comforting to know that for the past few months a fair few people were on self-imposed booze bans as they prepared for the big run. Even though I did not know any personally, these imaginary tee-total comrades gave me strength. However, they are all gone now, and will surely be spending all that sponsorship money on champagne before you can say "Cancer Research? Never heard of 'em".
So it's just me left. Me, the God-botherers, the pregnants, and the terminally unsociable. I don't even get to dress up as a pantomime horse, or be interviewed by Colin Jackson. So this is how it feels to be lonely.
Speaking of pregnants (although not necessarily tee-total pregnants), my sister Charlotte came to visit last night with husband Jim and their two-year-old son, Bay.
It was lovely to see them - and not least because their visit gave me the perfect excuse not to go to a German beer festival in Wavertree, to which Jimmy and Gary were trying to tempt me.
However, the sight of a young family yet again served as a brutal reminder that, if Gem and I decide to have kids, I may well be wasting one of my last years of freedom in pointless tee-totalism. Char and Jim's sizeable family car was absolutely packed with bags. They were mainly pastel-coloured and not one of them contained alcohol.
The future's dry. The future's orange (squash).
So why am I burdening myself and destroying my social life before I have to? Probably the same reason marathon runners do: Stubborn pride, a sense of challenge, and the chance to feel the unmistakable glow of inner-smugness.
And if someone gives me a foil blanket at 0001 on January 1st 2008, it will all have been worthwhile.
Tuesday, 17 April 2007
Tuesday April 17 - And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like 'I'm going to give up drink for a year'
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been three months, 16 days and 19 hours since my last drink.
I think it's safe to say I have entered a doldrums phase of this project. I've been dry long enough for the novelty to wear off, but not long enough for the end to be even remotely in site.
Yes, I'm still having fun and keeping busy, but the lack of alcohol is becoming frustrating.
At Ladies' Day, for example, I didn't want to get smashed, but would one cleansing ale have been so bad? Even the plain-clothed coppers were having a pint, for God's sake.
That night, Tam and Jimmy came to tea and I was again struck by the stupidity of not allowing myself a few snifters at the end of a hard working week. Well, two days in the office and two days prancing around Aintree, losing money and writing about Coleen McLoughlin's earth-shattering decision not to wear a hat. I was still thirsty, OK.
The rest of the weekend was also jam-packed with gilt-edged opportunities to drink, all of which I had to turn down.
Time: Saturday morning.
Occasion: Golf with Don in Solihull, followed by lunch at the Colebrook.
Drink wanted: Ice cold lager.
Drink got: Britvic 55.
Time: Saturday afternoon.
Occasion: Basking in sunshine outside the Adam and Eve before watching Blues v Southampton.
Drink wanted: Nourishing Guinness.
Drink got: Water.
Time: Saturday evening.
Occasion: Barbecue at Tam and Jimmy's.
Drink wanted: Beer, wine, spirits. Anything, really.
Drink got: Non-alcoholic lager, tea.
Time: Sunday morning.
Occasion: Golf with Gregg and Cardy in Allerton. Round the 9-hole in 43 (PB).
Drink wanted: Champagne!
Drink got: Orange squash.
Time: Sunday afternoon.
Occasion: Curtain shopping in town with Gem.
Drink wanted: Gin, Absinthe, Methadone. Anything to end the pain.
Drink got: Nowt.
Even my one chance to enjoy booze vicariously was shattered. Graham asked me to purchase some drink for him as I was nipping to Tesco before Tam and Jimmy's do. For the first time in 2007, here was my chance to peruse the booze aisle and select a purchase. Who cares if it was for someone else? At least I would feel the comforting weight of a case of lager in my hands - the muffled clink of glass giving just a hint of the treasure that lies within that virginal box. Perhaps Graham would even let me rip off the perforated cardboard panel to reveal the joy that lies within.
And what delight did he ask me to get him? Eight cans of Carlsberg. Or Fosters.
I could give up booze for five years and still not be excited at the thought of eight cans of that piss. Bloody Philistine doesn't know he's born.
Thankfully, the good weather seems to have turned and people appear to be back in work mode this week, so the drinking opportunities dried up on Monday and today.
Tomorrow we're having dinner at Helen and Adam's house. Adam is no longer a sales rep for a beer company, but I wouldn't put it past him to have a good stock left over. The challenges are everywhere.
This was a stupid idea.
I think it's safe to say I have entered a doldrums phase of this project. I've been dry long enough for the novelty to wear off, but not long enough for the end to be even remotely in site.
Yes, I'm still having fun and keeping busy, but the lack of alcohol is becoming frustrating.
At Ladies' Day, for example, I didn't want to get smashed, but would one cleansing ale have been so bad? Even the plain-clothed coppers were having a pint, for God's sake.
That night, Tam and Jimmy came to tea and I was again struck by the stupidity of not allowing myself a few snifters at the end of a hard working week. Well, two days in the office and two days prancing around Aintree, losing money and writing about Coleen McLoughlin's earth-shattering decision not to wear a hat. I was still thirsty, OK.
The rest of the weekend was also jam-packed with gilt-edged opportunities to drink, all of which I had to turn down.
Time: Saturday morning.
Occasion: Golf with Don in Solihull, followed by lunch at the Colebrook.
Drink wanted: Ice cold lager.
Drink got: Britvic 55.
Time: Saturday afternoon.
Occasion: Basking in sunshine outside the Adam and Eve before watching Blues v Southampton.
Drink wanted: Nourishing Guinness.
Drink got: Water.
Time: Saturday evening.
Occasion: Barbecue at Tam and Jimmy's.
Drink wanted: Beer, wine, spirits. Anything, really.
Drink got: Non-alcoholic lager, tea.
Time: Sunday morning.
Occasion: Golf with Gregg and Cardy in Allerton. Round the 9-hole in 43 (PB).
Drink wanted: Champagne!
Drink got: Orange squash.
Time: Sunday afternoon.
Occasion: Curtain shopping in town with Gem.
Drink wanted: Gin, Absinthe, Methadone. Anything to end the pain.
Drink got: Nowt.
Even my one chance to enjoy booze vicariously was shattered. Graham asked me to purchase some drink for him as I was nipping to Tesco before Tam and Jimmy's do. For the first time in 2007, here was my chance to peruse the booze aisle and select a purchase. Who cares if it was for someone else? At least I would feel the comforting weight of a case of lager in my hands - the muffled clink of glass giving just a hint of the treasure that lies within that virginal box. Perhaps Graham would even let me rip off the perforated cardboard panel to reveal the joy that lies within.
And what delight did he ask me to get him? Eight cans of Carlsberg. Or Fosters.
I could give up booze for five years and still not be excited at the thought of eight cans of that piss. Bloody Philistine doesn't know he's born.
Thankfully, the good weather seems to have turned and people appear to be back in work mode this week, so the drinking opportunities dried up on Monday and today.
Tomorrow we're having dinner at Helen and Adam's house. Adam is no longer a sales rep for a beer company, but I wouldn't put it past him to have a good stock left over. The challenges are everywhere.
This was a stupid idea.
Friday, 13 April 2007
Friday April 13 - Aintree Treats and Terrors
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been three months, 12 days and nine hours since my last drink.
About to head off to Aintree for the second day of the Grand National.
I just can't wait for that unmistakable thundering sound and the flash of colourful silk as the magnificent beasts loom into view - their eyes ablaze and their mighty thighs straining with the effort of keeping pace. Some are slight and nimble, others created for power. But they all have one aim: to win the cheers of the baying mob, and to ensure they finish up with an ecstatic little man on top of them.
That's right. It's Ladies' Day.
I have never braved the Friday or Saturday Aintree crowds without a fortifying drink inside me. Particularly on Ladies' Day, when the sight of acres of goosepimpled flesh requires either a calming tonic (if you're lucky) or - more probably - several gallons of booze to wash away the memory of 16-stone Sandra from Speke oozing out of her Liz Hurley-style safety pin dress. Except she couldn't find safety pins big enough, so had to use a few heavy duty bicycle locks to hold the flimsy fabric in place.
Officially I'm working, so getting rolling drunk was never an option.
However, Aintree is hard to beat on a sunny day, with a winning ticket in your pocket and a pint in hand. Today will be a tough test.
Will I make it through the day without a drink? Don't bet on it.
Not because I think I'll fail. I don't. I just mean you should bet on the horses, instead. It's much more exciting.
About to head off to Aintree for the second day of the Grand National.
I just can't wait for that unmistakable thundering sound and the flash of colourful silk as the magnificent beasts loom into view - their eyes ablaze and their mighty thighs straining with the effort of keeping pace. Some are slight and nimble, others created for power. But they all have one aim: to win the cheers of the baying mob, and to ensure they finish up with an ecstatic little man on top of them.
That's right. It's Ladies' Day.
I have never braved the Friday or Saturday Aintree crowds without a fortifying drink inside me. Particularly on Ladies' Day, when the sight of acres of goosepimpled flesh requires either a calming tonic (if you're lucky) or - more probably - several gallons of booze to wash away the memory of 16-stone Sandra from Speke oozing out of her Liz Hurley-style safety pin dress. Except she couldn't find safety pins big enough, so had to use a few heavy duty bicycle locks to hold the flimsy fabric in place.
Officially I'm working, so getting rolling drunk was never an option.
However, Aintree is hard to beat on a sunny day, with a winning ticket in your pocket and a pint in hand. Today will be a tough test.
Will I make it through the day without a drink? Don't bet on it.
Not because I think I'll fail. I don't. I just mean you should bet on the horses, instead. It's much more exciting.
Sunday, 8 April 2007
Sunday April 8 - Even Jesus Only Did 40 Days
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been three months, seven days and nine hours since my last drink.
It's been a tough few days for a non-drinker, so I'm almost glad that I'm now working for the rest of the Bank Holiday. There's nothing like being on call to destroy that feeling of relaxed happiness that is best served with chilled lager.
To be fair, Easter is not the booziest feast of the Christian calendar. It is a far less frivolous festival than Christmas, and our celebrations reflect that. Thus, we solemnly mark our Lord's crucifixion and resurrection by stuffing our face with simple chocolate and buying humble patio furniture, as opposed to Christmas, when we joyously celebrate His birth by drinking four pints of egg nog and photocopying our arses at the office do.
All the same, Easter is not all fish, buns and bunnies. There are still pitfalls for a non-drinker.
The temptation began, as expected, on Thursday night at Michelle and Henry's. The sun was shining, the first barbecue of the year was alight, and I desperately wanted to hear that sweet sound of cap being popped off bottle of overpriced Mexican beer.
Michelle, who was very keen to break my will, suggested I snort some vodka, because that won't technically count as drinking. I refused, of course. But I may keep it in mind, for emergencies.
On Friday, Gemma and I walked from Otterspool Prom (now cottager and dogger-free, thanks to the sterling efforts of Merseyside Police) to the Albert Dock. The weather was glorious and the dock was packed with people sitting in the sun and sipping chilled wine. It was maddening, and I had to rush into the Maritime Museum for respite. Perhaps it's a throwback to schooldays, but there's nothing quite like a museum to quash any rising feelings of fun. It's like chucking a bucket of water over two humping dogs.
The weather was so fine that we even stopped at the Britannia pub on the walk back to Otterspool. The way the light played on the concrete and broken glass, with the smell of cut grass mingling with dog turd and diesel, was too much to resist. We both stuck to soft drinks, which we drank fairly quickly while watching two children shrieking with delight as they kicked empty plastic glasses into the Mersey.
The temptation continued yesterday, when I played golf in Solihull and, for the first time ever, did not finish last. OK, so the lad I beat had never swung a club in his life and was using a borrowed set of pre-historic irons. But I still thrashed the loser! By, ahem, one stroke.
After that, there was time for the traditional pre-match drink. An alcoholic hors d-oeuvre, if you will, before the gourmet sporting feast that is Blues v Burnley at St Andrews.
Dosing up on booze before any Birmingham match is advisable, but as the end of the season approaches it is practically doctor's orders. Refreshing as my Britvic Orange 55 was, it did nothing to insulate me from the sheer, inevitable horror of watching "promotion-chasing" Blues surrender 0-1 to a team that has won only one other match since November. Well done, lads!
Then it was back home for a terrible night's sleep - I told you The Fear can still visit even non-drinkers - and now I'm looking down the barrel of (potentially) 48 hours of non-stop mither and misery while the sun beats down outside and the rest of the country has fun.
Oh well. It's probably easier than avoiding drink.
It's been a tough few days for a non-drinker, so I'm almost glad that I'm now working for the rest of the Bank Holiday. There's nothing like being on call to destroy that feeling of relaxed happiness that is best served with chilled lager.
To be fair, Easter is not the booziest feast of the Christian calendar. It is a far less frivolous festival than Christmas, and our celebrations reflect that. Thus, we solemnly mark our Lord's crucifixion and resurrection by stuffing our face with simple chocolate and buying humble patio furniture, as opposed to Christmas, when we joyously celebrate His birth by drinking four pints of egg nog and photocopying our arses at the office do.
All the same, Easter is not all fish, buns and bunnies. There are still pitfalls for a non-drinker.
The temptation began, as expected, on Thursday night at Michelle and Henry's. The sun was shining, the first barbecue of the year was alight, and I desperately wanted to hear that sweet sound of cap being popped off bottle of overpriced Mexican beer.
Michelle, who was very keen to break my will, suggested I snort some vodka, because that won't technically count as drinking. I refused, of course. But I may keep it in mind, for emergencies.
On Friday, Gemma and I walked from Otterspool Prom (now cottager and dogger-free, thanks to the sterling efforts of Merseyside Police) to the Albert Dock. The weather was glorious and the dock was packed with people sitting in the sun and sipping chilled wine. It was maddening, and I had to rush into the Maritime Museum for respite. Perhaps it's a throwback to schooldays, but there's nothing quite like a museum to quash any rising feelings of fun. It's like chucking a bucket of water over two humping dogs.
The weather was so fine that we even stopped at the Britannia pub on the walk back to Otterspool. The way the light played on the concrete and broken glass, with the smell of cut grass mingling with dog turd and diesel, was too much to resist. We both stuck to soft drinks, which we drank fairly quickly while watching two children shrieking with delight as they kicked empty plastic glasses into the Mersey.
The temptation continued yesterday, when I played golf in Solihull and, for the first time ever, did not finish last. OK, so the lad I beat had never swung a club in his life and was using a borrowed set of pre-historic irons. But I still thrashed the loser! By, ahem, one stroke.
After that, there was time for the traditional pre-match drink. An alcoholic hors d-oeuvre, if you will, before the gourmet sporting feast that is Blues v Burnley at St Andrews.
Dosing up on booze before any Birmingham match is advisable, but as the end of the season approaches it is practically doctor's orders. Refreshing as my Britvic Orange 55 was, it did nothing to insulate me from the sheer, inevitable horror of watching "promotion-chasing" Blues surrender 0-1 to a team that has won only one other match since November. Well done, lads!
Then it was back home for a terrible night's sleep - I told you The Fear can still visit even non-drinkers - and now I'm looking down the barrel of (potentially) 48 hours of non-stop mither and misery while the sun beats down outside and the rest of the country has fun.
Oh well. It's probably easier than avoiding drink.
Thursday, 5 April 2007
Thursday April 5 - Remember My Name...
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been three months, four days and 18 hours since my last drink.
Fame at last. Well, sort of.
Due to my immense powers of shameless self-promotion, I managed to get myself interviewed about this blog on BBC Radio Five Live yesterday morning.
It was a ten-minute chat with Matthew Bannister (there's a name built for a good chat-up line), and I think it went pretty well. Bannister was in London and I was sat all alone in a broom cupboard at BBC Radio Merseyside, feeling sweaty and nervous.
But I held it together. I cracked a couple of funnies, a bit of serious stuff, avoided sounding too preachy or loopy.
Yep, I reckon I ticked every box. Every box, that is, apart from the one where you give the blog address. Shit. I was out of the broom cupboard and halfway up Church Street before I realised that I hadn't given it, and Bannister hadn't asked.
Maybe my powers of self-promotion aren't quite as immense as I thought.
Still, it was a fun experience and hopefully they'll have me back on in a few months. The best bit was that they had pre-recorded an extract from the start of the blog. They didn't pay an actor to read it, but the researcher was definitely doing it 'with feeling', and I reckon he interpreted it correctly.
You can listen to it by following this link. Choose the Bannister show, and fast forward to around 1hr 18mins. It should be there until Wednesday April 11.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/fivelive/programmes/morning.shtml
This week has been hectic, with numerous boozing opportunities.
On Sunday we had Gary, Jim and Tam around for a roast dinner. Gem had a beer. Me and (preggers) Tam got stuck into the Apricot and Grape pop. Gary and Jim saw off a couple of bottles of red, plus beers. I'm not judging them. I was just extremely jealous.
Last night I was back in the pub Penny Lane Wine Bar with Graham, Cardy, Gary and John. I knew I was off work the next day (today), so had that Friday feeling.
It was good fun, although I did escape a tad early - 10.15pm - as the atmosphere had soured due to a disagreement over that age old question: what is the most dangerous animal to man? Graham was adamant that the answer was the prairie dog (something to do with fleas, apparently) and seemed to be quite hurt that we didn't believe him.
Today I played golf with Jim, and the sun was cracking the flags by the time we finished, at around 2.30pm. A pint would have been the perfect end to the perfect round (OK, so 38 over par isn't perfect, technically speaking). Sometimes, I think it's those cheeky snifters I miss more than the massive sessions.
Now, I'm off to Michelle and Henry's for a Greek barbecue. That sounds like something perverted, but it's not. It's exactly what it says on the tin. A barbecue, with Greek food.
Michelle is a great hostess. She loves to keep the wine flowing and could drink all of my friends - female or male - under the table. I know tonight will be fun but I do feel a bit sad that it will not be one of those classic all-night booze-ups.
In fact, scrub what I said earlier about missing cheeky snifters the most. It's the mammoth sessions for which I truly yearn.
God, I'm thirsty.
Fame at last. Well, sort of.
Due to my immense powers of shameless self-promotion, I managed to get myself interviewed about this blog on BBC Radio Five Live yesterday morning.
It was a ten-minute chat with Matthew Bannister (there's a name built for a good chat-up line), and I think it went pretty well. Bannister was in London and I was sat all alone in a broom cupboard at BBC Radio Merseyside, feeling sweaty and nervous.
But I held it together. I cracked a couple of funnies, a bit of serious stuff, avoided sounding too preachy or loopy.
Yep, I reckon I ticked every box. Every box, that is, apart from the one where you give the blog address. Shit. I was out of the broom cupboard and halfway up Church Street before I realised that I hadn't given it, and Bannister hadn't asked.
Maybe my powers of self-promotion aren't quite as immense as I thought.
Still, it was a fun experience and hopefully they'll have me back on in a few months. The best bit was that they had pre-recorded an extract from the start of the blog. They didn't pay an actor to read it, but the researcher was definitely doing it 'with feeling', and I reckon he interpreted it correctly.
You can listen to it by following this link. Choose the Bannister show, and fast forward to around 1hr 18mins. It should be there until Wednesday April 11.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/fivelive/programmes/morning.shtml
This week has been hectic, with numerous boozing opportunities.
On Sunday we had Gary, Jim and Tam around for a roast dinner. Gem had a beer. Me and (preggers) Tam got stuck into the Apricot and Grape pop. Gary and Jim saw off a couple of bottles of red, plus beers. I'm not judging them. I was just extremely jealous.
Last night I was back in the pub Penny Lane Wine Bar with Graham, Cardy, Gary and John. I knew I was off work the next day (today), so had that Friday feeling.
It was good fun, although I did escape a tad early - 10.15pm - as the atmosphere had soured due to a disagreement over that age old question: what is the most dangerous animal to man? Graham was adamant that the answer was the prairie dog (something to do with fleas, apparently) and seemed to be quite hurt that we didn't believe him.
Today I played golf with Jim, and the sun was cracking the flags by the time we finished, at around 2.30pm. A pint would have been the perfect end to the perfect round (OK, so 38 over par isn't perfect, technically speaking). Sometimes, I think it's those cheeky snifters I miss more than the massive sessions.
Now, I'm off to Michelle and Henry's for a Greek barbecue. That sounds like something perverted, but it's not. It's exactly what it says on the tin. A barbecue, with Greek food.
Michelle is a great hostess. She loves to keep the wine flowing and could drink all of my friends - female or male - under the table. I know tonight will be fun but I do feel a bit sad that it will not be one of those classic all-night booze-ups.
In fact, scrub what I said earlier about missing cheeky snifters the most. It's the mammoth sessions for which I truly yearn.
God, I'm thirsty.
Sunday, 1 April 2007
Sunday April 1 - Hungover...
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. I fell off the wagon last night. I ate a piece of rum-laced Black Forest Gateau, washed down with four pints of Absinthe.
Ha ha ha ha ha! Not really! April Fool! I fooled you, you idiots! I played a hilarious prank, and you fell for it! Ha ha ha ha ha!
Aaaaah. April Fool's Day. You've got to love nationalised japery.
In truth, Gem and I went for a day trip Chester Zoo yesterday. See, that's the sort of thing you do when alcohol is out of your life and you don't have the luxury of spending your weekend sleeping, puking and watching the Hollyoaks omnibus.
Instead, you drive to national tourist attractions and watch some semi-intelligent life-forms grunting, chattering and parading their swollen buttocks and protruding nipples for all to see. So, not a million miles from the Hollyoaks omnibus, after all.
Funnily enough, another (alleged) former addict was there too. Kerry Katona was wandering around with new hubby Dave and her two daughters, who are quite pretty, considering they were sired by the piggy one out of Westlife.
I considered asking Kerry if she was there for similar reasons to me.
Trying to fill those long hours now you're off the alleged bugle, eh love?
I didn't, though, because I was concerned that hubby Dave would think I was taking the piss and have me whacked. Those taxi-drivers can be quite well-connected, you know.
After the zoo, I went to Alma de Santiago (nee Dovedale Towers) for a pint of blackcurrant and soda. It cost me £2.40.
Now, I would complain and point out that when the Alma was known as plain old Dovedale Towers, a pint of squash would have cost about 45p. But, you know, they have turned it into a major celebrity hotspot. Mikey from Big Brother was spotted in there around six months ago. You simply can't expect bargain basement prices when you are rubbing shoulders with that level of people.
Today is an important milestone in this project, as it is exactly one-quarter complete. I was planning to give a comprehensive round-up of my deepest thoughts and emotions at this stage, but I've spent the time writing about protruding nipples and Kerry Katona instead, and now I'm driving to Brum to watch Blues-Coventry.
Deep emotions will have to wait. I'll just bottle them up inside me, like they did in the olden days. I will not, however, be leaving my back door open.
Ha ha ha ha ha! Not really! April Fool! I fooled you, you idiots! I played a hilarious prank, and you fell for it! Ha ha ha ha ha!
Aaaaah. April Fool's Day. You've got to love nationalised japery.
In truth, Gem and I went for a day trip Chester Zoo yesterday. See, that's the sort of thing you do when alcohol is out of your life and you don't have the luxury of spending your weekend sleeping, puking and watching the Hollyoaks omnibus.
Instead, you drive to national tourist attractions and watch some semi-intelligent life-forms grunting, chattering and parading their swollen buttocks and protruding nipples for all to see. So, not a million miles from the Hollyoaks omnibus, after all.
Funnily enough, another (alleged) former addict was there too. Kerry Katona was wandering around with new hubby Dave and her two daughters, who are quite pretty, considering they were sired by the piggy one out of Westlife.
I considered asking Kerry if she was there for similar reasons to me.
Trying to fill those long hours now you're off the alleged bugle, eh love?
I didn't, though, because I was concerned that hubby Dave would think I was taking the piss and have me whacked. Those taxi-drivers can be quite well-connected, you know.
After the zoo, I went to Alma de Santiago (nee Dovedale Towers) for a pint of blackcurrant and soda. It cost me £2.40.
Now, I would complain and point out that when the Alma was known as plain old Dovedale Towers, a pint of squash would have cost about 45p. But, you know, they have turned it into a major celebrity hotspot. Mikey from Big Brother was spotted in there around six months ago. You simply can't expect bargain basement prices when you are rubbing shoulders with that level of people.
Today is an important milestone in this project, as it is exactly one-quarter complete. I was planning to give a comprehensive round-up of my deepest thoughts and emotions at this stage, but I've spent the time writing about protruding nipples and Kerry Katona instead, and now I'm driving to Brum to watch Blues-Coventry.
Deep emotions will have to wait. I'll just bottle them up inside me, like they did in the olden days. I will not, however, be leaving my back door open.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)