My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been four months, 29 days and 14 hours since my last drink.
Yes, I am the one in ten. By which all UB40 fans will understand that I'm unemployed. Everyone else probably thinks I'm the solitary chump whose cat doesn't prefer Whiskas.
Only for a week, though. I left the Press Association on Friday, and don't start at the Daily Post until next Monday.
Leaving a job presents a clear challenge to the non-drinker - the Leaving Do - and I'm ashamed to say that I bottled it. I decided it would be easier not to have one.
Cowardly? Yes. But also considerate. The whole point of a leaving do is for the departing employee to make a drunken fool of themselves in front of their newly ex-colleagues. To make ill-advised passes at the woman and pick ill-advised fights with the men. And, naturellement, to tell the boss he's a ****.
Alas, I only worked with one other person in Liverpool, so the scope for passes/fights was extremely limited - she would have rejected the former and possibly beaten me in the latter. And as the most senior member of staff attending, I would have had to call myself a ****, which hardly presents the same drama.
I would have felt a bit of a fraud summoning my Manchester-based colleagues and other assorted journos over to Liverpool on a school night just to watch me drink lemonade for two hours, while failing to make a show of myself.
Yes, it's a weak excuse, but I'm sticking to it. Plus, I do have a joint do planned at Chester Races on June 12.
The reason I couldn't have the do on Friday was that I had a long-standing arrangement to go up to Scotland to see my mate, Rob.
My friendship with Rob, and other long-distance pals, was part of the motivation behind this project. Like most people, I have certain friends whom I only get to see once or twice a year, and so I look forward to those reunion weekends a great deal. So much catching up to do, so much news to share, so many stories to re-tell and grand schemes to announce. Inevitably, however, every reunion weekend would begin in the pub, and not move very far from it for the next 48 hours.
If catching up was the mission, throwing up was all too often the end result, and I would nearly always drive away from the weekend feeling sick and shaky yet none the wiser about my friends' lives. Other than what pubs they drank in. Any stories and plans would be lost in a drunken haze, and discussions about the future tended to be overshadowed by discussions on whether to go for a kebab or a curry.
Anyway, Rob agreed and we decided to avoid pubs and alcohol for the entire weekend.
So it came as no surprise whatsoever when I arrived in Edinburgh at 11pm on the Friday, phoned Rob for directions and was told: "I'm just having a few pints in a pub in Leith. Come down and meet me here."
To be fair to him, he did order a coke - alongside his pint of Guinness - as a show of solidarity. Plus, we did only stay for the one drink and the next day headed north to go and..you guessed it, play golf.
The golf was great, and was followed by a traditional Highland pub for lunch. Remember that cow carcass that Rob Roy hid inside to flee the English? Evidently, they're still using it to make burgers, and I caught some sort of bug from it which knocked me out for three days. Oh well, at least got to sample the atmosphere of Scottish cup final day. (You'll never guess who won. OK, it was Celtic!)
We camped on Saturday night, opting for separate tents after Gemma made one too many comments before I left about the so-called "fishing trips" in Brokeback Mountain. That was the only point when I really missed the booze all weekend. It was a cold and clear night, the scenery was fantastic, we had a great barbecue on the go and - most importantly - I had just thrashed Rob over 18 holes. Just two cans of beer (one to slake, one to savour) would have sufficed, but my iron will held out. And we were in the middle of nowhere, with not an offy in sight.
We played again on Sunday and I finally drove back to Liverpool on Monday morning. Did I feel any the wiser about Rob? I'd love to write some laddish comment here along the lines of: "Of course not, we just talked about golf instead." But, to be honest, I'd say we did talk properly and catch up more than would have been possible on a traditional boozy weekend.
Still, two cans wouldn't have hurt.
And, thanks to the increasing effects of the carcass burger, at least I still got to experience the nausea, sweating, sickness and hot flushes that mark the end of a more traditional reunion weekend.
As soon as I got home, the burger bug kicked in big style, so the only drink I have craved since Monday is Lemsip.
The rest of my week of unemployment has been extremely event-less and I have felt too rough to be tempted by booze. It would require stress or trauma on a massive level to make me want a drink at present.
Still, Big Brother starts tonight. Never say never...
Wednesday, 30 May 2007
Tuesday, 22 May 2007
Tuesday May 22 - Birthday Cancelled
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been four months, 21 days and 15 hours since my last drink.
One of the objectives behind this ridiculous project was to feel more energised, less stressed, and with more free time.
So it is with some dismay that I awoke on my 31st birthday today feeling extremely knackered, slightly stressed and with a nagging feeling that I have loads to do over the next few days and no time to do it in.
Bah.
Yes, I know most people wake up on their birthdays feeling old, tired and stressed. But that's what alcohol was invented for.
I'd love to go out for a few birthday beers tonight, particularly as the sun is cracking the flags outside and my mate Matt is over from Dubai for a few days.
Sometimes, this no-booze lark is just a pain in the arse for no apparent gain.
Happy chuffin' birthday to me.
How does Six Months In The Life Of A Social Alcoholic sound as a blog title?
One of the objectives behind this ridiculous project was to feel more energised, less stressed, and with more free time.
So it is with some dismay that I awoke on my 31st birthday today feeling extremely knackered, slightly stressed and with a nagging feeling that I have loads to do over the next few days and no time to do it in.
Bah.
Yes, I know most people wake up on their birthdays feeling old, tired and stressed. But that's what alcohol was invented for.
I'd love to go out for a few birthday beers tonight, particularly as the sun is cracking the flags outside and my mate Matt is over from Dubai for a few days.
Sometimes, this no-booze lark is just a pain in the arse for no apparent gain.
Happy chuffin' birthday to me.
How does Six Months In The Life Of A Social Alcoholic sound as a blog title?
Monday, 21 May 2007
Monday May 21 - The 19th Hole
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been four months, 20 days and 21 hours since my last drink.
Got back from my golfing weekend in Spain with Gary and Gregg at midnight last night.
I knew I'd want alcohol on a weekend away with the lads. A few cold lagers in the sun. Bottle of wine with dinner. Pricey pints and free shots of unidentifiable local spirits on the night out. These small pleasures are standard issue for any holiday.
What I didn't realise - perhaps naively - was that I would want a large quantity of booze to wash away the embarrassment of hacking not one, not two but three beautiful golf courses to pieces.
The courses were named Europe, Asia and America. Nice names, but my badly swung irons should have been named Hitler, Genghis Khan and Osama Bin Laden for the damage they did to each one respectively.
Water and coke can cool you down, but nothing quite quenches the burning shame of duffing your first tee shot - while an official starter looks on with a mixture of pity and loathing - like sweet sweet booze.
Fortunately, Gary and Gregg were happy to step into the breech and drink my share.
Alas, after about 16 hours sleep over the last four nights combined, I'm unable to string a sentence together.
It's a shame, cos there are many great tales to tell from our two nights out in Puerto Banus (like Blackpool with more money and less class) but I just can't.
I'll try again tomorrow, which, incidentally, is another night I should be boozing on as it's my 31st birthday.
In the meantime, if you bump into me and want to hear a funny story verbally, just prompt me by saying one of the following:
1. The Hemingway approach.
2. "No it's German. That's why I said Gooooldshlaaager."
3. WE'RE REALLY GOOD AT PUTTING!
Got back from my golfing weekend in Spain with Gary and Gregg at midnight last night.
I knew I'd want alcohol on a weekend away with the lads. A few cold lagers in the sun. Bottle of wine with dinner. Pricey pints and free shots of unidentifiable local spirits on the night out. These small pleasures are standard issue for any holiday.
What I didn't realise - perhaps naively - was that I would want a large quantity of booze to wash away the embarrassment of hacking not one, not two but three beautiful golf courses to pieces.
The courses were named Europe, Asia and America. Nice names, but my badly swung irons should have been named Hitler, Genghis Khan and Osama Bin Laden for the damage they did to each one respectively.
Water and coke can cool you down, but nothing quite quenches the burning shame of duffing your first tee shot - while an official starter looks on with a mixture of pity and loathing - like sweet sweet booze.
Fortunately, Gary and Gregg were happy to step into the breech and drink my share.
Alas, after about 16 hours sleep over the last four nights combined, I'm unable to string a sentence together.
It's a shame, cos there are many great tales to tell from our two nights out in Puerto Banus (like Blackpool with more money and less class) but I just can't.
I'll try again tomorrow, which, incidentally, is another night I should be boozing on as it's my 31st birthday.
In the meantime, if you bump into me and want to hear a funny story verbally, just prompt me by saying one of the following:
1. The Hemingway approach.
2. "No it's German. That's why I said Gooooldshlaaager."
3. WE'RE REALLY GOOD AT PUTTING!
Sunday, 13 May 2007
Sunday May 13 - A Wet Dry Weekend
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been four months, 12 days and 16 hours since my last drink.
This was the sort of weekend that booze was invented for. Sadly, my abstemiousness leaves me feeling empty and dissatisfied.
I used to hate the 'boom and bust' cycle of the social alcoholic - constantly recovering from one session or building myself up to the next. Now I miss those peaks and troughs of physical and emotional wellbeing. Because without them life is just, well, flat.
It all started on Thursday night. The show on Radio City went pretty well. Yes, my tongue turned to sandpaper during the intro and I sounded more nervous than a peachy buttocked schoolboy on his first day at Eton. Yes, my very first caller was a crank who claimed to have lost a foot while out drinking (Genuine quote: "I don't what happened because I was unconscious, but I'm told they had hacksaws"). And, yes, I may have asked an alcoholic caller if she named her son Jack after Jack Daniels.
However, for a first time, it went well and by midnight I was buzzing. I had a thirst that only an ice cold lager and whisky chaser could quench. I would have loved nothing more than to head straight to Concert Square and neck booze until the pounding in my chest reduced to a manageable rate. I wasn't asking for the resting heart rate of an Olympian cross-country skier. Even a middle-aged man flicking through Freeman's catalogue underwear section would have sufficed. Anything other than novice clubber about to become latest victim of deadly dance drug Ecstasy.
Alas, all I could do to come down from my showbiz-induced high was drive home via a ridiculously circuitous route then eat Hula Hoops and watch crappy cable TV until my body was satisfied that my 15 minutes of fame had come to an end.
By Friday night I was utterly knackered but keen to discuss the strong and weak points of my performance with my Liverpool-based mates. They had all promised to listen to the show, and even to call in if it sounded like I had failed to prompt any genuine callers. The thought of them gathered around the wireless, like some kind of disfunctional family from the 1930s, had given me strength while I sat in that lonely tower high above the city.
How very naive.
Not one of them listened. They went to the pub instead.
Gary, to his credit, did try to Sky Plus it. It didn't work.
Instead, on both Friday and Saturday nights, they expected me to give a blow-by-blow account of the show. A private broadcast, if you like, for people too grand to listen to the radio with Joe Public.
Not that I minded. It's nice to be the centre of attention. But on both nights, as I told the various anecdotes, I couldn't help but feel that such nights are best accompanied by booze. As my throat got sorer, and the rain outside grew heavier, it seemed like the perfect time for a proper booze up. For endless pints, and fancy dinner plans replaced by apologetic phone calls and bags of peanuts, and complicated round systems which mean you are forced to stay in the pub until closing.
When you feel like that, a fresh orange juice and soda water doesn't cut it. I went home early both nights (Coffee House on Friday, Penny Lane Wine Bar on Saturday) and have spent the entire weekend in a fug of mild depression.
I guess all I can do is chalk it down as a glum weekend, pick my chin up, and carry on.
Next weekend will be very different. Gary, Gregg and I are off to Spain to play golf at a fancy resort. I will then be the designated driver as we head to Puerto Banus to mingle with the jet set. I imagine it will be many things, but dull is not one of them.
Wish me luck.
PS. Watched Brokeback Mountain yesterday, which is basically a film about self-denial and an intense, aching, yearning for something you tell yourself you can't have. I know how they feel.
PPS. Just to make it clear, I'm yearning for booze. Not for some rootin' tootin' cowboy lovin.
This was the sort of weekend that booze was invented for. Sadly, my abstemiousness leaves me feeling empty and dissatisfied.
I used to hate the 'boom and bust' cycle of the social alcoholic - constantly recovering from one session or building myself up to the next. Now I miss those peaks and troughs of physical and emotional wellbeing. Because without them life is just, well, flat.
It all started on Thursday night. The show on Radio City went pretty well. Yes, my tongue turned to sandpaper during the intro and I sounded more nervous than a peachy buttocked schoolboy on his first day at Eton. Yes, my very first caller was a crank who claimed to have lost a foot while out drinking (Genuine quote: "I don't what happened because I was unconscious, but I'm told they had hacksaws"). And, yes, I may have asked an alcoholic caller if she named her son Jack after Jack Daniels.
However, for a first time, it went well and by midnight I was buzzing. I had a thirst that only an ice cold lager and whisky chaser could quench. I would have loved nothing more than to head straight to Concert Square and neck booze until the pounding in my chest reduced to a manageable rate. I wasn't asking for the resting heart rate of an Olympian cross-country skier. Even a middle-aged man flicking through Freeman's catalogue underwear section would have sufficed. Anything other than novice clubber about to become latest victim of deadly dance drug Ecstasy.
Alas, all I could do to come down from my showbiz-induced high was drive home via a ridiculously circuitous route then eat Hula Hoops and watch crappy cable TV until my body was satisfied that my 15 minutes of fame had come to an end.
By Friday night I was utterly knackered but keen to discuss the strong and weak points of my performance with my Liverpool-based mates. They had all promised to listen to the show, and even to call in if it sounded like I had failed to prompt any genuine callers. The thought of them gathered around the wireless, like some kind of disfunctional family from the 1930s, had given me strength while I sat in that lonely tower high above the city.
How very naive.
Not one of them listened. They went to the pub instead.
Gary, to his credit, did try to Sky Plus it. It didn't work.
Instead, on both Friday and Saturday nights, they expected me to give a blow-by-blow account of the show. A private broadcast, if you like, for people too grand to listen to the radio with Joe Public.
Not that I minded. It's nice to be the centre of attention. But on both nights, as I told the various anecdotes, I couldn't help but feel that such nights are best accompanied by booze. As my throat got sorer, and the rain outside grew heavier, it seemed like the perfect time for a proper booze up. For endless pints, and fancy dinner plans replaced by apologetic phone calls and bags of peanuts, and complicated round systems which mean you are forced to stay in the pub until closing.
When you feel like that, a fresh orange juice and soda water doesn't cut it. I went home early both nights (Coffee House on Friday, Penny Lane Wine Bar on Saturday) and have spent the entire weekend in a fug of mild depression.
I guess all I can do is chalk it down as a glum weekend, pick my chin up, and carry on.
Next weekend will be very different. Gary, Gregg and I are off to Spain to play golf at a fancy resort. I will then be the designated driver as we head to Puerto Banus to mingle with the jet set. I imagine it will be many things, but dull is not one of them.
Wish me luck.
PS. Watched Brokeback Mountain yesterday, which is basically a film about self-denial and an intense, aching, yearning for something you tell yourself you can't have. I know how they feel.
PPS. Just to make it clear, I'm yearning for booze. Not for some rootin' tootin' cowboy lovin.
Wednesday, 9 May 2007
Wednesday May 9 - Radio's What's New
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been four months, eight days and 17 hours since my last drink.
I have no need for alcohol this week as I'm currently buzzing off a far more powerful drug: adrenaline.
And when I say adrenaline, I mean fear.
Pretty much out of the blue, I was approached by Radio City last week and asked if I'd like to stand in for Pete Price, who does a legendary late-night phone-in show on week nights.
So when I say fear, I mean I'm bricking it.
The show is tomorrow night, from 10pm to midnight. I'm pretty sure you can listen online at www.radiocity.co.uk if you're not in the City catchment area.
I won't blog any more now, as time's a pressing, but I'll give a full debrief after the show.
I can't help but feel I'll be wanting a very large, very strong drink around midnight tomorrow - either to toast my own success or hide from a spectacular public humiliation.
Watch this space.
Yes, the theme of the show will be binge drinking. I'm nothing if not predictable.
I have no need for alcohol this week as I'm currently buzzing off a far more powerful drug: adrenaline.
And when I say adrenaline, I mean fear.
Pretty much out of the blue, I was approached by Radio City last week and asked if I'd like to stand in for Pete Price, who does a legendary late-night phone-in show on week nights.
So when I say fear, I mean I'm bricking it.
The show is tomorrow night, from 10pm to midnight. I'm pretty sure you can listen online at www.radiocity.co.uk if you're not in the City catchment area.
I won't blog any more now, as time's a pressing, but I'll give a full debrief after the show.
I can't help but feel I'll be wanting a very large, very strong drink around midnight tomorrow - either to toast my own success or hide from a spectacular public humiliation.
Watch this space.
Yes, the theme of the show will be binge drinking. I'm nothing if not predictable.
Saturday, 5 May 2007
Saturday May 5 - I Am Not A Juice Slave, I Am A Free Man
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been four months (!), four days and seven hours since my last drink.
One of things that used to annoy me about drinking was the sleep disruption.
I would look forward to a Saturday morning lie-in all week, then go out boozing on a Friday night and wake up at 6.30am the next day - heart pounding, head thumping and a mouth as dry as Gandhi's flip-flop.
I'd try to get back to sleep but it was no use, and I'd inevitably stumble downstairs and look for something soothing on TV. Something that wasn't loud, bright, nausea-inducing cartoons. Or a BBC News show presented by the B-team muppets who know all too well they are just holding the fort while Kaplinsky et al go for their weekend colonic irrigation.
I'd usually settle for TransWorld Sport, a weekly magazine round-up of sports that you never knew existed. To Montreal now, for the World Squat Thrust Championships...
Anyhow, I can officially report that going tee-total does guarantee a Saturday morning lie-in. Instead of waking up at 6.30am, I now sleep like a log until 6.45am. So, I've effectively traded an enjoyable social life for 15 extra minutes in bed. Brilliant.
Actually, that's not fair. I did have a good night last night. Me, Gem, Henry and Michelle went to Chilli Banana, a Thai restaurant on Lark Lane. The food was fantastic and the service was great, although one slightly over-zealous waitress - who had clearly been brainwashed at some customer service cult - spied that I was drinking only mineral water and sidled up to me to suggest I try one of their "fantastic range of fruit juice!"
Yeah, that's just what they want. Just like the drug pusher who preys on the vulnerable and the disillusioned. They see you're on the water - they know you're weak - and it's "hey, why not try a dash of cordial in that?", or "how about some fantastic fruit juice.."
Before you know it, they've got you hooked on £5 glasses of the freshly squeezed juice of mangoes handpicked by trained monkeys in a remote Pacific island and shipped back to the UK in golden crates lined with silk.
Yeah? Well, not me. Find a different mug, sister, cos I AIN'T BUYING! NOT TODAY, NOT EVER! YOU HEAR ME? I WILL NOT BE YOUR FRUIT JUICE SLAVE!
I didn't say that, of course. I just said: "No thanks, I'm fine with the water."
But I think she knew what I meant.
The rest of the week was so busy that avoiding booze was easy. I supppose I could have done with a beer when I watched the Liverpool-Chelsea Champions League semi-final on Tuesday. It wasn't that I particularly craved alcohol, but I could have used the bottle to subdue Jimmy, who has suddenly remembered he is a Liverpool fan again. And not a modest one.
I was also so busy that I barely noticed the passing of April into May, which means I am now one-third of the way through this challenge. That is definitely a serious milestone. I suspect the next two months will fly by, and then I'll be halfway there. Not that I'm "wishing my life away" - which is something my mum always advised against (usually when I was forward planning what I would have for each birthday and Christmas present between 1984 and 2010).
It's just that I'm quite thirsty.
One of things that used to annoy me about drinking was the sleep disruption.
I would look forward to a Saturday morning lie-in all week, then go out boozing on a Friday night and wake up at 6.30am the next day - heart pounding, head thumping and a mouth as dry as Gandhi's flip-flop.
I'd try to get back to sleep but it was no use, and I'd inevitably stumble downstairs and look for something soothing on TV. Something that wasn't loud, bright, nausea-inducing cartoons. Or a BBC News show presented by the B-team muppets who know all too well they are just holding the fort while Kaplinsky et al go for their weekend colonic irrigation.
I'd usually settle for TransWorld Sport, a weekly magazine round-up of sports that you never knew existed. To Montreal now, for the World Squat Thrust Championships...
Anyhow, I can officially report that going tee-total does guarantee a Saturday morning lie-in. Instead of waking up at 6.30am, I now sleep like a log until 6.45am. So, I've effectively traded an enjoyable social life for 15 extra minutes in bed. Brilliant.
Actually, that's not fair. I did have a good night last night. Me, Gem, Henry and Michelle went to Chilli Banana, a Thai restaurant on Lark Lane. The food was fantastic and the service was great, although one slightly over-zealous waitress - who had clearly been brainwashed at some customer service cult - spied that I was drinking only mineral water and sidled up to me to suggest I try one of their "fantastic range of fruit juice!"
Yeah, that's just what they want. Just like the drug pusher who preys on the vulnerable and the disillusioned. They see you're on the water - they know you're weak - and it's "hey, why not try a dash of cordial in that?", or "how about some fantastic fruit juice.."
Before you know it, they've got you hooked on £5 glasses of the freshly squeezed juice of mangoes handpicked by trained monkeys in a remote Pacific island and shipped back to the UK in golden crates lined with silk.
Yeah? Well, not me. Find a different mug, sister, cos I AIN'T BUYING! NOT TODAY, NOT EVER! YOU HEAR ME? I WILL NOT BE YOUR FRUIT JUICE SLAVE!
I didn't say that, of course. I just said: "No thanks, I'm fine with the water."
But I think she knew what I meant.
The rest of the week was so busy that avoiding booze was easy. I supppose I could have done with a beer when I watched the Liverpool-Chelsea Champions League semi-final on Tuesday. It wasn't that I particularly craved alcohol, but I could have used the bottle to subdue Jimmy, who has suddenly remembered he is a Liverpool fan again. And not a modest one.
I was also so busy that I barely noticed the passing of April into May, which means I am now one-third of the way through this challenge. That is definitely a serious milestone. I suspect the next two months will fly by, and then I'll be halfway there. Not that I'm "wishing my life away" - which is something my mum always advised against (usually when I was forward planning what I would have for each birthday and Christmas present between 1984 and 2010).
It's just that I'm quite thirsty.
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