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.