Sunday June 24 - Gregg's Stag Do

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.