My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been five months, 23 days and 22 hours since my last drink.
Got back from Krakow, Poland, a few hours ago. Feel utterly broken despite having imbibed nothing stronger than double espressos and chilli sauce, albeit in large quantities. Once again, it strikes me that although alcohol is to blame for many things, it is not to blame for everything. Ie, it is still possible to feel rough after a tee-total stag weekend.
The reason for feeling so wretched is sleep-deprivation. I got an average of three hours per night for last three nights. God only knows how Gregg and the other lads feel, although Cardy probably best summed it up when he stood up on the plane and announced, to no-one in particular but everyone within earshot: "I want to wee, poo and vomit at the same time."
Thirteen of us went. Unlucky for some, as the saying goes. Unlucky for Krakow, on this occasion.
It was a good number, not only in terms of being a managable-sized group, but it occasionally made me feel like Jesus. Y'know, a clean-living, noble, charismatic figure leading his rag-tag band of 12 followers among suspicious and often hostile people. Indeed, just as the real disciples were often persecuted and arrested by the authorities on trumped-up charges, so did two of our apostles.
Admittedly, the bizarre charge levelled against our Matthew and Mark - see, even the names fit - was 'upsetting local women', rather than heresy. (Our two heroes were frogmarched to a police station and shown CCTV images of them admiring a passing lady's bottom.) Rather than nailing them to the nearest cross, the police were simply demanding a 600-zloty (£60) pay-off, which they didn't get. They were treated, however, to some colourful speeches from Matt about the nature of British justice, and an amusing false name from Mark. He was so tickled by his hastily-invented nom de plume that he is seriously considering changing his name to Mark Mouse by deed poll.
From a non-drinking point of view, this was a tough trip. Before setting off, I took some comfort from the fact that I had already done one dry stag weekend, in Barcelona, back in February. Back then, however, the whole tee-total project was a relative novelty for me, rather than the depressing millstone it reguarly feels like nowadays.
There was also the factor that my Brummie mates, although very raucous and big drinkers, are not as wild as the lads I know through Gregg. Growing up with Blackpool as the nearest proper town can do strange things to anyone.
To avoid a linear account of the trip, and to focus my mind on the whole point of this blog - the highs and lows of tee-totalism - I'll pick out a few likely Potential Breaking Points, when this project could have been destroyed by the sheer magnitude of the challenge, and try to give an idea of the Temptation Level.
Potential Breaking Point: First drink.
As I've often stated, the first drink is often the hardest time to refuse booze. Ordering a water or coke as the sweet sweet smell of beer or wine wanders into your nostrils for the first time can be torture. Fortunately, on this occasion, the first drink on offer was pints of domestic lager in a Wetherspoons pub inside Liverpool John Lennon Airport. At 4.45am. Thanks but no thanks.
Temptation level: 0/10
PBP: First drink in Poland.
OK, this was a lot harder. The sun was cracking the flags in Krakow's main square, the shorts were on, and the clock had reached an hour at which a espectable gent might consider taking a small beer. OK, it was 11am. My flat coke arrived first, went down my neck in about 30 seconds, and then I just had to sit and watch the rest of the group savour their ice-cold pints.
TL: 7/10.
PBP: Four-pints pissed on Friday.
Not me, obviously, but everyone else was getting to the silly, giggly stage of drunkenness, when inebriation still looks like good fun, by around 2pm. Yes, I was having fun too, but I did find myself wondering if it would be a very long weekend for me, and whether I shouldn't just break my vow and start playing catch-up before it was too late.
TL: 6/10
PBP: Ten-pints pissed on Friday.
Most of the group could still hold a decent conversation at this point, even if they were a bit sweaty and slurry, so I was still having fun. And since my drink of choice had become double espresso (it seems more acceptable to drink coffee during nights out on the Continent) I was probably a bit sweaty and jabbery, which hardly puts me in a position to judge.
TL: 3/10.
PBP: First drink Saturday.
Following a mix-up with the breakfast order (we thought we'd asked for 'omelettes with everything', the waitress thought we had simply asked for 'everything', and proceeded to serve us the entire breakfast menu x 13) many of the group were too full to order booze when we piled into the first pub of the day, at around noon. This made my life a little easier, and I felt refreshingly 'normal' as a good five or six of us ordered soft drinks.
TL: 1/10.
PBP: Second drink Saturday.
Turns out breakfast was digested quicker than they thought, and everyone but me got stuck into the booze once more. And I was the freak show again.
TL: 4/10.
PBP: The debating society.
Good-natured but foul-mouthed bickering was a constant theme of the weekend, as it seemed even the simplest decision could not be made without some kind of stand-up row. It peaked on Saturday afternoon, as we debated for what seemed like hours over what activity we should do to amuse ourselves. Bowling? Go-karting? A boat trip? Golf? The pros and cons of every possible activity was considered at mind-numbing length before we finally settled on one: going to an Irish bar. Great.
TL: 6/10.
PBP: Back garden shame.
No, that is not a sexual euphemism, but it does sum up the moment I felt most in need of a drink. After a few liveners in the Irish bar on Saturday afternoon, we moved to the beer garden of a local pub nearby. It was a charming little area, which reminded me of a granny's back garden - all pot plants, lace doilies and carefully-tended shrubbery.
After about three hours, I regret to report that the pot plants had been knocked over, the lace doilies were being worn knotted-hankie style, and the carefully-tended shrubbery was being treated to regular extra 'waterings'.
The look on the waitress' face had long passed from 'good-natured tolerance' to utter hatred, and local residents had started throwing stones at us from nearby flats.
For a good hour, there was no point in me trying to talk to any of them, or stop the nonsense, so I just sat back feeling embarrassed, bored, and slightly concerned that the day was still very young.
TL: 9/10.
As it happens, this was pretty much the peak of the bad behaviour. We went back to the flat to get changed for the evening, and the break seemed to sober them up a bit. Although we had another big night out, it became fairly clear that they were basically drinking themselves sober after the excesses of the beer garden. I lasted until 2am before heading to bed.
Predictably, I did feel fairly smug as I sat on the return plane, feeling tired but basically OK, while they shivered and sweated and swore they could go a lifetime without booze, never mind a year.
Even more predictably, Graham phoned me at 8pm tonight. "A few of us are having a couple at the Dovedale, just to take the edge off, if you fancy coming down."
Animals.
Sunday, 24 June 2007
Sunday, 17 June 2007
Sunday June 17 - Chester Drawers
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been five months, 16 days and 19 hours since my last drink.
I think my new job has actually made this non-drinking challenge a whole lot easier. I leave Liverpool for Llandudno Junction at 7.30am, work from around 9am til 7pm, then get home at 8.30pm, utterly knackered. Once I'm on the sofa, even going upstairs to the toilet seems a bit ambitious, never mind heading out to the boozer. I think I may invest in a commode.
As such, I have very little to write about over the past week. In fact, were it not for my official PA leaving do on Tuesday night, I may have had to record a blank entry.
Fortunately, I did go on my leaving do, and I can therefore tell you about being knicker-flashed by a reporter from a respected national newspaper and waking up in bed with my boss.
The leaving bash was a joint do for me and the PA's other Liverpool-based reporter, Emma, who finally decided to quit after a traumatic weekend in Cumbria involving Richard Branson and a pair of borrowed waders.
As Emma lives in Chester and I work in Wales, we decided that the perfect venue for the do was the night meeting at Chester Races. What a fresh idea, we thought. Who wants to sit in a grotty Liverpool boozer necking pints and talking nonsense when you can make like a Roman, and spend a night in the fresh air watching a magnificent sporting spectacle? OK, as it happens, our 20-strong group decided to stand next to the toilets all night (for that authentic pub smell), necking pints (everyone else) or lemonade (me) and speaking nonsense anyway - occasionally looking up to see on a giant screen if our horse had lost (me) or won (everyone else).
Despite it being my leaving do, I was acutely aware of the fact that I had indeed started my new job, and it was imperative that I get a decent night's sleep and be fit for purpose the next day. I therefore made a solemn vow to myself that I would go for a few scoops after the races, but be home by midnight. Yes, I had broken similar vows in the past, but surely only because I was easily led astray when drunk?
Nope. Turns out I'm just easily led astray.
Having announced at 11.30pm that I was leaving the cosy riverside pub and seeting off for home, I was told that there was a new plan. "We're going to large it in Chester - and you're coming."
Perhaps it was the thrill of the reckless behaviour. Or the joy of being in demand. Or the fact that I hadn't heard anybody use the phrase 'large it' - even ironically - for eight years. But my response was unequivocal. "OK then."
Two hours later, having dicovered that Chester doesn't actually get that large on a Tuesday night (but does have some rather charming wine bars) we admitted defeat and called it a night.
While walking to my car, I also admitted that driving 40 miles home for the sake of about four hours sleep was ridiculous, and so called Emma and asked if she could provide bed and board for me and Gregg. She agreed, on the basis that I give her and several other stragglers a lift home.
One of the stragglers was a very good friend of mine, who performed a proper drunkard's tumble after getting out of the car, ending up on her back, legs akimbo, flashing her gusset for all the world to see. I won't embarrass her by saying which newspaper she works for, but let's just say it's one that doesn't approve of young ladies falling over drunkenly in public. Or asylum seekers.
We finally reached Emma's house at around 2.30am, where I had to share a bed with Gregg. Sharing a bed with a man when drunk is a lot easier than when sober, and I'm not ashamed to say that I placed a chaste line of pillows betwixt us - to avoid accidental roll-togethers - before I could sleep. (For the record, sharing a bed with a drunk man when you are sober was fairly unpleasant generally - a fact I will try to remember next time I roll in from the pub and decide that Gem deserves a cuddle. Of course, I won't actually remember - that's the point of being drunk.)
Wednesday was a bit of a struggle at work, but the fact is that being a bit tired is simply nowhere near as bad as being hungover.
The rest of the week, as mentioned earlier, was uneventful. Even with Gem away on a hen night - surely the perfect excuse to go on a bender - I stayed home alone on both Friday and Saturday nights, then worked on Sunday.
Another hard week beckons, but something tells me I'll have one or two things to write about this time next week, when I return from Gregg's stag do in Poland.
As that fella in Quantum Leap used to say...oh, boy.
I think my new job has actually made this non-drinking challenge a whole lot easier. I leave Liverpool for Llandudno Junction at 7.30am, work from around 9am til 7pm, then get home at 8.30pm, utterly knackered. Once I'm on the sofa, even going upstairs to the toilet seems a bit ambitious, never mind heading out to the boozer. I think I may invest in a commode.
As such, I have very little to write about over the past week. In fact, were it not for my official PA leaving do on Tuesday night, I may have had to record a blank entry.
Fortunately, I did go on my leaving do, and I can therefore tell you about being knicker-flashed by a reporter from a respected national newspaper and waking up in bed with my boss.
The leaving bash was a joint do for me and the PA's other Liverpool-based reporter, Emma, who finally decided to quit after a traumatic weekend in Cumbria involving Richard Branson and a pair of borrowed waders.
As Emma lives in Chester and I work in Wales, we decided that the perfect venue for the do was the night meeting at Chester Races. What a fresh idea, we thought. Who wants to sit in a grotty Liverpool boozer necking pints and talking nonsense when you can make like a Roman, and spend a night in the fresh air watching a magnificent sporting spectacle? OK, as it happens, our 20-strong group decided to stand next to the toilets all night (for that authentic pub smell), necking pints (everyone else) or lemonade (me) and speaking nonsense anyway - occasionally looking up to see on a giant screen if our horse had lost (me) or won (everyone else).
Despite it being my leaving do, I was acutely aware of the fact that I had indeed started my new job, and it was imperative that I get a decent night's sleep and be fit for purpose the next day. I therefore made a solemn vow to myself that I would go for a few scoops after the races, but be home by midnight. Yes, I had broken similar vows in the past, but surely only because I was easily led astray when drunk?
Nope. Turns out I'm just easily led astray.
Having announced at 11.30pm that I was leaving the cosy riverside pub and seeting off for home, I was told that there was a new plan. "We're going to large it in Chester - and you're coming."
Perhaps it was the thrill of the reckless behaviour. Or the joy of being in demand. Or the fact that I hadn't heard anybody use the phrase 'large it' - even ironically - for eight years. But my response was unequivocal. "OK then."
Two hours later, having dicovered that Chester doesn't actually get that large on a Tuesday night (but does have some rather charming wine bars) we admitted defeat and called it a night.
While walking to my car, I also admitted that driving 40 miles home for the sake of about four hours sleep was ridiculous, and so called Emma and asked if she could provide bed and board for me and Gregg. She agreed, on the basis that I give her and several other stragglers a lift home.
One of the stragglers was a very good friend of mine, who performed a proper drunkard's tumble after getting out of the car, ending up on her back, legs akimbo, flashing her gusset for all the world to see. I won't embarrass her by saying which newspaper she works for, but let's just say it's one that doesn't approve of young ladies falling over drunkenly in public. Or asylum seekers.
We finally reached Emma's house at around 2.30am, where I had to share a bed with Gregg. Sharing a bed with a man when drunk is a lot easier than when sober, and I'm not ashamed to say that I placed a chaste line of pillows betwixt us - to avoid accidental roll-togethers - before I could sleep. (For the record, sharing a bed with a drunk man when you are sober was fairly unpleasant generally - a fact I will try to remember next time I roll in from the pub and decide that Gem deserves a cuddle. Of course, I won't actually remember - that's the point of being drunk.)
Wednesday was a bit of a struggle at work, but the fact is that being a bit tired is simply nowhere near as bad as being hungover.
The rest of the week, as mentioned earlier, was uneventful. Even with Gem away on a hen night - surely the perfect excuse to go on a bender - I stayed home alone on both Friday and Saturday nights, then worked on Sunday.
Another hard week beckons, but something tells me I'll have one or two things to write about this time next week, when I return from Gregg's stag do in Poland.
As that fella in Quantum Leap used to say...oh, boy.
Sunday, 10 June 2007
Sunday June 10 - Summer Cravings
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been five months, nine days and 21 hours since my last drink.
Summer is here - and I'm wasting it on sobriety. Pissing away the scorching days and long sultry nights in a stream of blackcurrant squash.
It is an aberration. I feel as though God himself is saying: "You've worked hard all week, have a hot weekend on me - now go out and get twatted, you little scamps, before I change my mind" And what do I do? Throw it back in His face by drinking Britvic 55.
Even Wednesday night was bad enough. I finished work at 6.30pm and by 6.40pm was standing on the harbour in Conwy, outside the Liverpool Arms, with fresh sea air in my lungs, the sun on my back and a pint glass in my hand. The perfect post-work drink. Or it would have been, had the glass contained lager. Or Guinness. Or even cider. Frankly, I'd have settled for Babycham. Anything other than bleeding squash.
Friday was even worse. My first week at work had been enjoyable but tough, and as I drove home I was wracked by a craving for curry. This happened somewhere near Rhyl and by the time I reached Liverpool I practically sprinted down Allerton Road to Millon, which is my favourite curry house because it reminds me of the ones I went to as a kid in Brum. Ie, untouched by modernity. Now, curry needs beer at the best of times. But in a heatwave beer should be a legal requirement, particularly as the Millon's idea of air-conditoning was simply to close the curtains.
That's right. While every other Allerton Road reveller pulled on their summer outfits (who likes short shorts? 20-year-old Scouse birds like short shorts) sipped cold beers on pavement terraces, Gem and I ate curry in what felt like a very dark sauna. I thought I was doing OK until I had to start stealing napkins from other tables (all empty, surprisingly) to mop the sweat from my head. I'd like to say "my brow" but, yes, it was my whole head that needed mopping.
That kind of heat-generation requires lager, but I did stick to water and tough it out.
Fittingly, another person having their brow mopped around the same time was Tam, whose name you may recognise as a fellow tee-totaller. She wasn't having a curry-in-a-sauna, but she was squeezing out a 9lb 7oz baby boy, which is even worse, apparently.
I'm trying to think of it as gaining a baby, rather than losing a non-drinking partner.
It was quite a traumatic birth, although both mother and baby Alexander are fine. It therefore fell upon us to take dad Jimmy out to wet the baby's head.
We went to the Willow Bank, a pub which the more literally-minded visitor might expect to overlook a Willow Bank, as depicted on the sign. They would be disappointed. But then, you can hardly call a pub 'The busy traffic lights opposite Asda', can you?
We sat in the 'beer garden' (car park) out front, where conversation was punctuated only every couple of seconds by police sirens, honking horns, screaming kids and an old bag lady who made repeated requests to see Gregg's sexy hairy chest". Despite all this, it was a special night for our friendship group, and I truly felt that I was missing out as I watched everyone get mildly toasted. Missing the odd piss-up has not bothered me so far, but this was the first baby born to a close friend. It was a one-off and cannot, by definition, be repeated.
Unless, of course, I just cut Tam and Jim out of my life from now on and pretend it never happened, which seems a bit harsh.
The final hurdle came today, when Gem and I celebrated our 2nd wedding anniversary. Last year we feasted on salmon and pink champagne outside the Palm House in Sefton Park. This year, we went to Hilbre Island with a ham and cheese sarnie and a multipack of McCoy crisps from Morrisons. Who says romance is dead?
I'm not sure I can do a long hot summer without booze. Anyone know how to do a rain dance?
Summer is here - and I'm wasting it on sobriety. Pissing away the scorching days and long sultry nights in a stream of blackcurrant squash.
It is an aberration. I feel as though God himself is saying: "You've worked hard all week, have a hot weekend on me - now go out and get twatted, you little scamps, before I change my mind" And what do I do? Throw it back in His face by drinking Britvic 55.
Even Wednesday night was bad enough. I finished work at 6.30pm and by 6.40pm was standing on the harbour in Conwy, outside the Liverpool Arms, with fresh sea air in my lungs, the sun on my back and a pint glass in my hand. The perfect post-work drink. Or it would have been, had the glass contained lager. Or Guinness. Or even cider. Frankly, I'd have settled for Babycham. Anything other than bleeding squash.
Friday was even worse. My first week at work had been enjoyable but tough, and as I drove home I was wracked by a craving for curry. This happened somewhere near Rhyl and by the time I reached Liverpool I practically sprinted down Allerton Road to Millon, which is my favourite curry house because it reminds me of the ones I went to as a kid in Brum. Ie, untouched by modernity. Now, curry needs beer at the best of times. But in a heatwave beer should be a legal requirement, particularly as the Millon's idea of air-conditoning was simply to close the curtains.
That's right. While every other Allerton Road reveller pulled on their summer outfits (who likes short shorts? 20-year-old Scouse birds like short shorts) sipped cold beers on pavement terraces, Gem and I ate curry in what felt like a very dark sauna. I thought I was doing OK until I had to start stealing napkins from other tables (all empty, surprisingly) to mop the sweat from my head. I'd like to say "my brow" but, yes, it was my whole head that needed mopping.
That kind of heat-generation requires lager, but I did stick to water and tough it out.
Fittingly, another person having their brow mopped around the same time was Tam, whose name you may recognise as a fellow tee-totaller. She wasn't having a curry-in-a-sauna, but she was squeezing out a 9lb 7oz baby boy, which is even worse, apparently.
I'm trying to think of it as gaining a baby, rather than losing a non-drinking partner.
It was quite a traumatic birth, although both mother and baby Alexander are fine. It therefore fell upon us to take dad Jimmy out to wet the baby's head.
We went to the Willow Bank, a pub which the more literally-minded visitor might expect to overlook a Willow Bank, as depicted on the sign. They would be disappointed. But then, you can hardly call a pub 'The busy traffic lights opposite Asda', can you?
We sat in the 'beer garden' (car park) out front, where conversation was punctuated only every couple of seconds by police sirens, honking horns, screaming kids and an old bag lady who made repeated requests to see Gregg's sexy hairy chest". Despite all this, it was a special night for our friendship group, and I truly felt that I was missing out as I watched everyone get mildly toasted. Missing the odd piss-up has not bothered me so far, but this was the first baby born to a close friend. It was a one-off and cannot, by definition, be repeated.
Unless, of course, I just cut Tam and Jim out of my life from now on and pretend it never happened, which seems a bit harsh.
The final hurdle came today, when Gem and I celebrated our 2nd wedding anniversary. Last year we feasted on salmon and pink champagne outside the Palm House in Sefton Park. This year, we went to Hilbre Island with a ham and cheese sarnie and a multipack of McCoy crisps from Morrisons. Who says romance is dead?
I'm not sure I can do a long hot summer without booze. Anyone know how to do a rain dance?
Tuesday, 5 June 2007
Tuesday June 5 - From Walsall to Wales
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been five months, four days and 22 hours since my last drink.
Some people are born to achieve great and notable things. I may not have climbed Everest, or split the atom, or lifted the European Cup. But I doubt there's many people out there who can look up from their deathbed and genuinely claim: "I once spent an entire night in the Chicago Rock Cafe in Walsall and didn't touch a drop."
The Chicago Rock Cafe (or CRoC, for short) was the venue for my mum-in-law's surprise 50th birthday party on Saturday. It actually turned out to be a fun night, but there were a few moments when I feared a relapse.
The day didn't get off to the best start, perhaps because I spent most of it inside a sweltering car for a cake-related magical mystery tour of the Midlands. (Theoretical question: you plan to visit your parents in Solihull and have a choice of where to pick up a fancy birthday cake - the shop in Solihull or the depot on some godforsaken industrial estate 10 miles away in Kings Norton - which do you pick? The shop in Solihull? You'd think so, wouldn't you...)
Gem and I were then tasked with the slightly stressful job of getting Ann, my mum-in-law, to the CRoC without arousing her suspicion or letting her walk past CRoC's glass atrium in which her family and friends were waiting to surprise her. This went fairly smoothly, and involved just a few unlikely boasts on my part. "Oh, yeah, I used to come to Walsall all the time as a kid. I seem to remember you can park just behind this brand new Morrison's supermarket. Hang on, don't walk that way, we need to go the long way round as I've also miraculously remembered there's a Bank of Scotland cash machine on the corner..."
Once inside, I really felt that I deserved a drink. Fortunately, my default setting is now so firmly switched to non-drinking that I queued at the bar and obediently ordered a Coke - only feeling the need for something stronger when two of the local "ladies" tried to sweet talk me into letting them into our VIP section. Seriously, they looked like Hobbits, no doubt complete with hairy feet. And they sounded like...well, like those annoying people who try to be funny by doing absurdly exaggerated impressions of thick Brummies. We wonna be togevva...
To be fair, the CRoC did turn out to be a good venue. Yes, there were a lot of straining beer guts, and hairy bum cleavage, and moustaches, and forearms stained by fading tattoos. And, no, the men weren't much better. But it was fun and friendly (only one of the men in our party was greeted in the toilets with that traditional Walsall war cry: "Ey, mate, are yow Wolves?") and we had a good time.
On Sunday we had a barbecue at Gem's parents' house in Tividale. Again, in a previous life I'd have felt that no BBQ could be complete without an ice-cold lager, but I'm getting so used to this sobriety lark that I went tee-total without a second thought. The only time I really needed the ice-cold tinnie was to hold against the back of my neck, which by the end of the day had turned lobster red as I hunched over the barbie.
I got back to the Pool with time to go for a few jars with Gary, Gregg and Graham at the Penny Lane Wine Bar. It's been a while since I went there, and regular readers of this blog may be interested to learn that a pint of soda and black is no longer £1.50. No, the glorified glass of squash now costs £1.70. I've said it before and I'll say it again. The dirty, robbin, bastards.
Then, on Monday, I started my new job at the Daily Post Wales. It's been pretty good so far, albeit a slightly strange experience to spend the WHOLE day working, with absolutely no chance to surf the net/write my blog/generally arse about.
As a result, I'm totally knackered and not even tempted to drink at present.
That said, I can already tell that this job will be far more of an emotional rollercoaster than PA - with greater highs and lows. And we all know that emotional rollercoasters make you want to drink. That's why Alton Towers called theirs The Corkscrew.
I can well see myself fancying a bucket of beer come Friday.
Some people are born to achieve great and notable things. I may not have climbed Everest, or split the atom, or lifted the European Cup. But I doubt there's many people out there who can look up from their deathbed and genuinely claim: "I once spent an entire night in the Chicago Rock Cafe in Walsall and didn't touch a drop."
The Chicago Rock Cafe (or CRoC, for short) was the venue for my mum-in-law's surprise 50th birthday party on Saturday. It actually turned out to be a fun night, but there were a few moments when I feared a relapse.
The day didn't get off to the best start, perhaps because I spent most of it inside a sweltering car for a cake-related magical mystery tour of the Midlands. (Theoretical question: you plan to visit your parents in Solihull and have a choice of where to pick up a fancy birthday cake - the shop in Solihull or the depot on some godforsaken industrial estate 10 miles away in Kings Norton - which do you pick? The shop in Solihull? You'd think so, wouldn't you...)
Gem and I were then tasked with the slightly stressful job of getting Ann, my mum-in-law, to the CRoC without arousing her suspicion or letting her walk past CRoC's glass atrium in which her family and friends were waiting to surprise her. This went fairly smoothly, and involved just a few unlikely boasts on my part. "Oh, yeah, I used to come to Walsall all the time as a kid. I seem to remember you can park just behind this brand new Morrison's supermarket. Hang on, don't walk that way, we need to go the long way round as I've also miraculously remembered there's a Bank of Scotland cash machine on the corner..."
Once inside, I really felt that I deserved a drink. Fortunately, my default setting is now so firmly switched to non-drinking that I queued at the bar and obediently ordered a Coke - only feeling the need for something stronger when two of the local "ladies" tried to sweet talk me into letting them into our VIP section. Seriously, they looked like Hobbits, no doubt complete with hairy feet. And they sounded like...well, like those annoying people who try to be funny by doing absurdly exaggerated impressions of thick Brummies. We wonna be togevva...
To be fair, the CRoC did turn out to be a good venue. Yes, there were a lot of straining beer guts, and hairy bum cleavage, and moustaches, and forearms stained by fading tattoos. And, no, the men weren't much better. But it was fun and friendly (only one of the men in our party was greeted in the toilets with that traditional Walsall war cry: "Ey, mate, are yow Wolves?") and we had a good time.
On Sunday we had a barbecue at Gem's parents' house in Tividale. Again, in a previous life I'd have felt that no BBQ could be complete without an ice-cold lager, but I'm getting so used to this sobriety lark that I went tee-total without a second thought. The only time I really needed the ice-cold tinnie was to hold against the back of my neck, which by the end of the day had turned lobster red as I hunched over the barbie.
I got back to the Pool with time to go for a few jars with Gary, Gregg and Graham at the Penny Lane Wine Bar. It's been a while since I went there, and regular readers of this blog may be interested to learn that a pint of soda and black is no longer £1.50. No, the glorified glass of squash now costs £1.70. I've said it before and I'll say it again. The dirty, robbin, bastards.
Then, on Monday, I started my new job at the Daily Post Wales. It's been pretty good so far, albeit a slightly strange experience to spend the WHOLE day working, with absolutely no chance to surf the net/write my blog/generally arse about.
As a result, I'm totally knackered and not even tempted to drink at present.
That said, I can already tell that this job will be far more of an emotional rollercoaster than PA - with greater highs and lows. And we all know that emotional rollercoasters make you want to drink. That's why Alton Towers called theirs The Corkscrew.
I can well see myself fancying a bucket of beer come Friday.
Friday, 1 June 2007
Friday June 1 - Five Months Done
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been five months, 0 days and 11 hours since my last drink.
Five months without booze. Unbelievable. I really needed a pick-me-up and I think this is it. Just one month to go and I'll have reached the halfway point, after which most journeys become easier.
Going without booze during my week of unemployment continues to be made easier by this crappy cold.
Gregg, Hannah, Jimmy and (a very pregnant) Tam came for dinner last night, and I was not even remotely tempted to drink. I think this must be down to the blocked nose, as it is usually torture to catch a whiff of other people's wine or beer, particularly in the first few rounds.
The only other moment of temptation was when Jimmy informed me that he had used his pen - which I had just been holding - to collect fragments of freshly spattered brain from a crime scene just a few hours earlier. That sort of information could usually justify a cleansing nip of whisky - just to wash away the thought - but I had to make do with apple juice. And some soap for my hands, obviously.
Should I be pleased or worried that my body has 'forgotten' the very concept of alcohol? It barely registered in my brain (untouched by biro so far, thankfully) last night. I feel like I have forgotten what various drinks taste like, I have forgotten how it feels to be drunk, and I have forgotten why I used to drink so regularly.
On the one hand, I must be getting healthier. On the other, I am destroying my life's work.
This is all getting a bit psycho-analytical. Maybe the second half won't be as easy as I thought.
Five months without booze. Unbelievable. I really needed a pick-me-up and I think this is it. Just one month to go and I'll have reached the halfway point, after which most journeys become easier.
Going without booze during my week of unemployment continues to be made easier by this crappy cold.
Gregg, Hannah, Jimmy and (a very pregnant) Tam came for dinner last night, and I was not even remotely tempted to drink. I think this must be down to the blocked nose, as it is usually torture to catch a whiff of other people's wine or beer, particularly in the first few rounds.
The only other moment of temptation was when Jimmy informed me that he had used his pen - which I had just been holding - to collect fragments of freshly spattered brain from a crime scene just a few hours earlier. That sort of information could usually justify a cleansing nip of whisky - just to wash away the thought - but I had to make do with apple juice. And some soap for my hands, obviously.
Should I be pleased or worried that my body has 'forgotten' the very concept of alcohol? It barely registered in my brain (untouched by biro so far, thankfully) last night. I feel like I have forgotten what various drinks taste like, I have forgotten how it feels to be drunk, and I have forgotten why I used to drink so regularly.
On the one hand, I must be getting healthier. On the other, I am destroying my life's work.
This is all getting a bit psycho-analytical. Maybe the second half won't be as easy as I thought.
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