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.