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.