My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been six months, 29 days and 21 hours since my last drink.
My life is too boring to blog, apparently.
This was the brutal - but probably fair - accusation levelled at me over the weekend by a young scamp who once looked up to me. I'll call him Jimmy Bracewell, because that's his name.
I bear Jimmy no ill will, as he was actually offering constructive criticism. This blog, he pointed out, is limited because my life is too stable. I go to work, come home, go to the pub, occasionally go on holiday or for a big weekend, and yearn for alcohol. Sometimes it's hard, sometimes it's easy, but I never really appear to be a man on the edge.
I agree that this blog would be seriously boosted by some massive personal crisis, but I have to draw the line at some of Jimmy's suggestions. I will not be arranging, for example, for "Gemma to go out and shag a Premiership footballer" simply to improve the quality of a blog.
If there was a book deal, on the other hand...
No, it's still not going to happen.
So, all I can do is apologise to readers who feel that this blog lacks emotional depth and raw emotion. And if you find the relentless anecdotes of a happy, sheltered, middle-class boy with no major problems (or none that he wants to share on an open forum) make you want to puke, then I suggest you look away now.
I went to another wedding this weekend. Gemma's university housemate Emma was marrying Dave - one of the lads who lived in the uni house next door.
It was a right fancy do in a place called Hoghton Tower, in Lancashire. The banqueting hall was where King James I of England was so taken with a delicious loin of beef that he knighted it Sir Loin on the spot - hence the expression sirloin steak.
Although Emma is not officially Royal, she's the nearest thing to it that I know. And as befits any Lancashire princess, her dad kindly stumped up for a free bar and ensured the top quality wine and champagne flowed generously throughout the day. (As opposed to a Yorkshire princess, whose father would begrudgingly fork out for a dozen bags of pork scratchings, a barrel of Tetley's and that's yer flaming lot.)
It is a uniquely painful experience to spend an entire day trying to ignore the sound of yet another champagne cork popping, while nursing a glass of half cranberry juice, half sparkling water. (I like to add some fizz to my urinary tract-cleansing berry drinks on special occasions!)
It is even more painful to be the designated driver for three people - Gem, Anna and John - who have all supped liberally of the free booze. Particularly when they their less-than-razor-sharp navigation skills mean the five-mile journey to the hotel takes 45-minutes. (I had hoped never to have to go to Blackburn again after leaving PA, never mind as a taxi driver for three drunken buffoons.)
The rest of the night, however, was great fun despite my sobriety. I even used the same tactic for overcoming my shyness on the dancefloor that I developed at Matt and Cathy's wedding. Ie, sober dancing is only embarrassing if you do it half-heartedly. Do it with conviction, no matter how badly, and it's brilliant fun. That, at least, is my explanation for mincing around to It's Raining Men and allowing myself to be pulled across said dancefoor on an invisible lassoo thrown by the best man.
I also met a man who should be my nemesis - the bloke who appears in several TV ads for the sickly learner's booze, WKD. He's the bloke who strips naked while his flatmate is trying to watch football, and ends up volleying his rolled-up socks and pants at him. He also does another one in which he performs a robotics-style dance using a power drill. Despite advertising a wanker's drink, he turned out to be a nice guy. I was planning to tell him about this blog, and maybe even canvass his opinion. Unfortunately, he was too busy fending off the attentions of one particular guest who kept shouting: "Do the dance! Do the dance! Go on, do the dance for us!"
Just imagine that. I only have to give up booze, and therefore endanger my enjoyment of weddings etc, for a year. He will be politely declining increasingly urgent pleas to "Do the dance!" for the rest of his life. Oh well, serves him right for advertising a wanker's drink.
The wedding was followed by a lavish barbeque at Emma's parents' house on the Sunday. Once again the booze flowed and once again I could only watch with envy as I sipped cranberry juice while everyone else got stuck into yet more champagne. On the plus side, my urinary tract has probably never been cleaner. On the negative, I did try to make up for the lack of booze by making at least four trips to the barbecue and hog roast. So I'll probably get gout instead.
See. Cystitis or gout. Who said my non rock'n'roll life was boring?
Monday, 30 July 2007
Thursday, 26 July 2007
Thursday July 26 - Champagne Charlie
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been six months, 25 days and 12 hours since my last drink.
Here's a worry. I've been out two nights in a row this week (both times to Fargo in Woolton - I'm nothing if not a creature of habit) and both times I was asked by mates what alcoholic drink I'm craving the most.
Both times I've looked deep into my subconscious and given the following answer: champagne.
Oooh, champagne! A nice chilled glass of bubbly! La-di-da! Get me!
If it was just the once I could have written it off as an anomalous result, but twice...what the hell has happened to me? What have I become?
A big butch guy like me should surely be craving flagons of Guinness or Stella, not delcate flutes of sparkling white wine. I wasn't even a big champagne drinker before. It just reminds me of weddings, where you have to nurse one glass of the stuff through 45 minutes of speeches.
Both nights at Fargo were good fun. Last night was a low-key meal with Helen and Adam, so it was pretty easy to stay off the booze without a second thought.
The first, however, was for Tam's 30th birthday and was a little more complex. She was back on the pop with a vengeance after an enforced period of sobriety due to being up the duff. (Don't worry - she's had him now, of course.)
Although I am now almost immune to any feelings of envy while watching my boozy mates get stuck into a pint, it was quite hard to watch someone enjoying alcohol following a long lay-off. Oh well, only five months and five days to go.
Then it's champers time!
Here's a worry. I've been out two nights in a row this week (both times to Fargo in Woolton - I'm nothing if not a creature of habit) and both times I was asked by mates what alcoholic drink I'm craving the most.
Both times I've looked deep into my subconscious and given the following answer: champagne.
Oooh, champagne! A nice chilled glass of bubbly! La-di-da! Get me!
If it was just the once I could have written it off as an anomalous result, but twice...what the hell has happened to me? What have I become?
A big butch guy like me should surely be craving flagons of Guinness or Stella, not delcate flutes of sparkling white wine. I wasn't even a big champagne drinker before. It just reminds me of weddings, where you have to nurse one glass of the stuff through 45 minutes of speeches.
Both nights at Fargo were good fun. Last night was a low-key meal with Helen and Adam, so it was pretty easy to stay off the booze without a second thought.
The first, however, was for Tam's 30th birthday and was a little more complex. She was back on the pop with a vengeance after an enforced period of sobriety due to being up the duff. (Don't worry - she's had him now, of course.)
Although I am now almost immune to any feelings of envy while watching my boozy mates get stuck into a pint, it was quite hard to watch someone enjoying alcohol following a long lay-off. Oh well, only five months and five days to go.
Then it's champers time!
Saturday, 21 July 2007
Saturday July 21 - Fray-ed Nerves
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been six months, 20 days and 22 hours since my last drink.
Another weekend, another Gregg Fray-related incident. (We're not lovers, although you'd be forgiven for assuming we were 'life partners' from the regularity of his appearance in this blog.)
Sometimes I wish I had a video camera to record just how annoying Gregg can be when he is drunk. Then I remember, I do have a video camera. In fact, I have two video cameras. It's just that I can never be arsed to take them out with me to record Gregg being annoying.
It's probably for the best. For one thing, he'd be even more annoying if there was a camera pointing at him. For another, it would have been dangerous for me to record him being annoying tonight, as his annoying behaviour took the form of hanging more than half of his body from the passenger window of my car, screaming Oasis songs at the top of his lungs, while I drove at around 80mph on the M56.
It also involved pulling on the handbrake in order to force me to stop for fags, twisting my rear view mirror around in order to watch himself sing 'power ballads', draping himself over me to sing romantically to me/breathe beery fumes in my face, and generally making a nuisance of himself throughout a one-hour journey from Malpas in Cheshire back to the Pool. All of this in fairly torrential rain. So, on balance, I don't think that looking through a camcorder viewfinder instead of the windscreen would have been the best idea.
The occasion for today's merriment was the 40th birthday party of Rob Davies, who works with me on the DP newsdesk. One of Rob's friends works for Marstons brewery, and kindly bought along a 72-pint keg of Banks' Bitter. Rob had a pint of it. His mate had a pint or two. Even one of the ladies had a half. Gregg pretty much made it his business to see to the rest of it. Maria, who used to work at the DP, matched him drink for drink. On the white wine. And lucky old me got to drive them both home.
And if there's one thing more annoying than a drunken Gregg, it's a drunken Gregg with a female audience.
To be honest, I had a great afternoon, and was not massively bothered by not having a bevvy. I didn't even mind Gregg being a twat on the way home, which seemed to disappoint him a little as he was clearly hoping for a reaction.
"I'll tell you what old buddy," he slurred as I finally dropped him off at home, "you've got the patience of a saint."
Maybe I do, maybe I don't. But I vowed at the start of this project that I would be the same old Will even when stone-cold sober. I know the old me wouldn't have stopped him being an arse, so why should the sober me? (Having said that, even the old me would have stopped him pissing in that front garden in Malpas while a young girl looked on in horror. The sober me, however, was simply too embarrassed to admit to knowing him.)
On Friday night, I went to Penny Lane Wine Bar with Gregg (again, we're not lovers), Gary and Graham. It was OK, but most of the night was spent outside in the freezing rain, due to the smoking ban. I drank pints of orange juice and soda, but have now grown as sick of that acidic concoction as I did of blackcurrant cordial and soda.
I'm beginning to realise the brutal truth of the matter. There is no soft drink that is pleasant to drink in large quantities (more than two pints) because that is about as much drink as the human body needs in any one sitting. The only reason it feels pleasant to drink pint after pint of ale is that your body is too pissed to notice it doesn't need any more.
Sigh. Roll on January, cos this is getting boring now. I want to be the smelly annoying drunk leaning out of the car window singing Oasis, not the boring old OJ-sipping saint in the driving seat.
Another weekend, another Gregg Fray-related incident. (We're not lovers, although you'd be forgiven for assuming we were 'life partners' from the regularity of his appearance in this blog.)
Sometimes I wish I had a video camera to record just how annoying Gregg can be when he is drunk. Then I remember, I do have a video camera. In fact, I have two video cameras. It's just that I can never be arsed to take them out with me to record Gregg being annoying.
It's probably for the best. For one thing, he'd be even more annoying if there was a camera pointing at him. For another, it would have been dangerous for me to record him being annoying tonight, as his annoying behaviour took the form of hanging more than half of his body from the passenger window of my car, screaming Oasis songs at the top of his lungs, while I drove at around 80mph on the M56.
It also involved pulling on the handbrake in order to force me to stop for fags, twisting my rear view mirror around in order to watch himself sing 'power ballads', draping himself over me to sing romantically to me/breathe beery fumes in my face, and generally making a nuisance of himself throughout a one-hour journey from Malpas in Cheshire back to the Pool. All of this in fairly torrential rain. So, on balance, I don't think that looking through a camcorder viewfinder instead of the windscreen would have been the best idea.
The occasion for today's merriment was the 40th birthday party of Rob Davies, who works with me on the DP newsdesk. One of Rob's friends works for Marstons brewery, and kindly bought along a 72-pint keg of Banks' Bitter. Rob had a pint of it. His mate had a pint or two. Even one of the ladies had a half. Gregg pretty much made it his business to see to the rest of it. Maria, who used to work at the DP, matched him drink for drink. On the white wine. And lucky old me got to drive them both home.
And if there's one thing more annoying than a drunken Gregg, it's a drunken Gregg with a female audience.
To be honest, I had a great afternoon, and was not massively bothered by not having a bevvy. I didn't even mind Gregg being a twat on the way home, which seemed to disappoint him a little as he was clearly hoping for a reaction.
"I'll tell you what old buddy," he slurred as I finally dropped him off at home, "you've got the patience of a saint."
Maybe I do, maybe I don't. But I vowed at the start of this project that I would be the same old Will even when stone-cold sober. I know the old me wouldn't have stopped him being an arse, so why should the sober me? (Having said that, even the old me would have stopped him pissing in that front garden in Malpas while a young girl looked on in horror. The sober me, however, was simply too embarrassed to admit to knowing him.)
On Friday night, I went to Penny Lane Wine Bar with Gregg (again, we're not lovers), Gary and Graham. It was OK, but most of the night was spent outside in the freezing rain, due to the smoking ban. I drank pints of orange juice and soda, but have now grown as sick of that acidic concoction as I did of blackcurrant cordial and soda.
I'm beginning to realise the brutal truth of the matter. There is no soft drink that is pleasant to drink in large quantities (more than two pints) because that is about as much drink as the human body needs in any one sitting. The only reason it feels pleasant to drink pint after pint of ale is that your body is too pissed to notice it doesn't need any more.
Sigh. Roll on January, cos this is getting boring now. I want to be the smelly annoying drunk leaning out of the car window singing Oasis, not the boring old OJ-sipping saint in the driving seat.
Sunday, 15 July 2007
Sunday July 15 - Guess Who's Back?
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been six months, 14 days and 20 hours since my last drink.
I always used to think that drink made me lazy. That if I could just avoid those long nights in the boozer and extended hangovers, then that play/novel/bestselling film script that I must surely have inside me would simply burst out. It would be practically unavoidable.
So did it?
Nope.
Turns out I'm just naturally lazy. I can't even be bothered to write a blog entry in two weeks. Pathetic.
Seriously, two weeks without a blog post is prety darned poor, and I suspect the handful of regular readers may have given up the ghost. I know I would.
On the other hand, perhaps you had mistook my long period of absence for a spectacular fall off the wagon, and are now tuning in to read all about the gory details.
If so, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you again. I have not spent the last fortnight on an Elton (an extravagent bender). I am not writing this entry from the Priory, covered in tattoos, yellow bruises and sick. Boringly, my body has remained untainted and the only new addiction I have picked up is Facebook. Sorry.
For the record, I have had plenty of opportunities to fall off the wagon. Last weekend saw Brummies Matt P and Don come up to the Pool, for example, and both beat me on the Allerton 9-hole. Losing in your own back yard to a little ginger fella and a man who underwent major back surgery two months ago is surely reason enough to want to drink - not to mention the fact that it was the first peep of sunshine in about a month. Alas, it had to be an overpriced cranberry and soda at Alma de Santiago. Well, you can't go somewhere that "upmarket" and ask for blackcurrant squash, can you?
Naturally, I've also made several trips to the Penny Lane Wine Bar. I used to moan that it was too smoky in there. Post-smoking ban, it turns out that it smells of farts. And it still costs £1.60 for a soda and blackcurrant.
On Friday, Gregg and I stopped in Liverpool at around 7pm on the way back from Wales to "pop into" Mike Hornby's leaving do from the Echo. (Mike is one of the lucky pups replacing me and Emma at PA). I write "pop into" in speech marks because, inevitably, one thing led to another and I found myself still in town at 12.30am. To be precise, I was in Blundell Street, screaming to make myself heard over the din of a bad Dean Martin impersonator and a gaggle of ancient Hens. I'm not sure why I was screaming to be heard, because my audience (a stag party casualty from Dudley, my wedding photographer Ray Farley, and a glassy-eyed Gregg) were barely capable of speech, let alone listening or independent thought.
I wouldn't say I was tempted to drink at that stage, but there are definitely moments when I question the point of this whole project. Standing in the pissing rain (away from the din), drinking a flat Coke that I didn't want, waiting for Gregg to finish his 8th lager (a task made infinitely slower by his regular bouts of suggestive dancing and talking nonsense) was one of those moments. If I'd have been drinking, it would have been a cracking night. Instead, I had an OK time. It feels like I'm wasting a perfectly good year of my life in sobriety.
The rest of the weekend was fun, but no great strain on the no-boozing front. Gem's sisters were up with their fellas, and we only went out for a couple of cheeky ones at the Penny Lane WB. Gem and Nicola still managed to get pissed, though, as I think the barmaid had some kind of bi-polar disorder in which she could only pour wine by the thimble or bucket. Hence, when I asked her to top up the pathetically small measures of rose wine, she filled the glasses to their very brims. For those who remember your science lessons, I could clearly see meniscuses peeping over the top of the glasses.
Today, it was Sally's bloke Dave's turn to beat me at golf. He hadn't played for about ten years, and even that was just pitch'n'putt with his granddad in Telford. Still, such defeat is becoming so regular that it hardly drives me to drink any more. I just need to get used to the fact that I'm the Tiger Tim of Allerton 9-hole. Maybe Robinsons would sponsor me, too. I do drink a lot of squash, after all.
I always used to think that drink made me lazy. That if I could just avoid those long nights in the boozer and extended hangovers, then that play/novel/bestselling film script that I must surely have inside me would simply burst out. It would be practically unavoidable.
So did it?
Nope.
Turns out I'm just naturally lazy. I can't even be bothered to write a blog entry in two weeks. Pathetic.
Seriously, two weeks without a blog post is prety darned poor, and I suspect the handful of regular readers may have given up the ghost. I know I would.
On the other hand, perhaps you had mistook my long period of absence for a spectacular fall off the wagon, and are now tuning in to read all about the gory details.
If so, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you again. I have not spent the last fortnight on an Elton (an extravagent bender). I am not writing this entry from the Priory, covered in tattoos, yellow bruises and sick. Boringly, my body has remained untainted and the only new addiction I have picked up is Facebook. Sorry.
For the record, I have had plenty of opportunities to fall off the wagon. Last weekend saw Brummies Matt P and Don come up to the Pool, for example, and both beat me on the Allerton 9-hole. Losing in your own back yard to a little ginger fella and a man who underwent major back surgery two months ago is surely reason enough to want to drink - not to mention the fact that it was the first peep of sunshine in about a month. Alas, it had to be an overpriced cranberry and soda at Alma de Santiago. Well, you can't go somewhere that "upmarket" and ask for blackcurrant squash, can you?
Naturally, I've also made several trips to the Penny Lane Wine Bar. I used to moan that it was too smoky in there. Post-smoking ban, it turns out that it smells of farts. And it still costs £1.60 for a soda and blackcurrant.
On Friday, Gregg and I stopped in Liverpool at around 7pm on the way back from Wales to "pop into" Mike Hornby's leaving do from the Echo. (Mike is one of the lucky pups replacing me and Emma at PA). I write "pop into" in speech marks because, inevitably, one thing led to another and I found myself still in town at 12.30am. To be precise, I was in Blundell Street, screaming to make myself heard over the din of a bad Dean Martin impersonator and a gaggle of ancient Hens. I'm not sure why I was screaming to be heard, because my audience (a stag party casualty from Dudley, my wedding photographer Ray Farley, and a glassy-eyed Gregg) were barely capable of speech, let alone listening or independent thought.
I wouldn't say I was tempted to drink at that stage, but there are definitely moments when I question the point of this whole project. Standing in the pissing rain (away from the din), drinking a flat Coke that I didn't want, waiting for Gregg to finish his 8th lager (a task made infinitely slower by his regular bouts of suggestive dancing and talking nonsense) was one of those moments. If I'd have been drinking, it would have been a cracking night. Instead, I had an OK time. It feels like I'm wasting a perfectly good year of my life in sobriety.
The rest of the weekend was fun, but no great strain on the no-boozing front. Gem's sisters were up with their fellas, and we only went out for a couple of cheeky ones at the Penny Lane WB. Gem and Nicola still managed to get pissed, though, as I think the barmaid had some kind of bi-polar disorder in which she could only pour wine by the thimble or bucket. Hence, when I asked her to top up the pathetically small measures of rose wine, she filled the glasses to their very brims. For those who remember your science lessons, I could clearly see meniscuses peeping over the top of the glasses.
Today, it was Sally's bloke Dave's turn to beat me at golf. He hadn't played for about ten years, and even that was just pitch'n'putt with his granddad in Telford. Still, such defeat is becoming so regular that it hardly drives me to drink any more. I just need to get used to the fact that I'm the Tiger Tim of Allerton 9-hole. Maybe Robinsons would sponsor me, too. I do drink a lot of squash, after all.
Monday, 2 July 2007
Monday July 2 - Supportive Friends
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been six months, one day and 21 hours since my last drink.
To mark the halfway point of this challenge, I decided to seek the opinions of my friends and family, via the medium of a group email. Did they think I'd get this far? Do they think I'll make the full year? Do they care?
The first thing I discovered is that nearly all of my so-called friends have changed email addresses and failed to tell me. It is unclear whether this is because they are bored of my tee-totalism, or just bored of me.
Anyhoo, here's a selection of those who haven't changed emails, could be bothered to respond, and did write something worth noting. With my responses, natch.
Matt Laddin:
Did you think I'd make it this far?
No
Do you think I'll do another six months?
No
Do you care?
No
(WB: Ooh, catty. You can tell he used to be a 3am girl.)
Don:
I'm confident in your determination to see it through but am hoping
for a spectacular fall off the wagon - preferably just before the 12
months are up. Don't know why - just seems apt.
I couldn't care less whether you drink or not but have really enjoyed reading about your exploits. If you would rather have insults to publish however, try this:
'Please finish soon and get back to ruining other people's lives
rather than you own, you journo-scum.'
Cheers
Don
PS. We still on for this weekend?
(WB: Yes.)
Caesar:
I assumed you would do it, as, despite your obvious love of the booze, I didn't think you'd allow yourself to make such a big claim and then fail, thereby giving friends and foe the opportunity to rip into you.
(WB: Oh really? Well I've checked your email from December, and it says nothing of the sort. Just bangs on about marathon training.)
Rob:
good luck son. I'm proud of you.
(WB: Rob, we've been through this. You're not my father.)
Raj:
I think I thought that you'd struggle a bit more than you have.
When you have bored me over the last six months I have struggled to figure out
whether that's because of the lack of booze or your inherent dullness.
(WB: Ha ha ha!!! Great one, mate! LOL! :) I'd say something vitriolic back, but Raj is this blog's greatest publicist, so I can't risk offending him...)
Seriously, thanks to all who responded. All readers, whether you know me personally or not, should feel free to leave messages - abusive or otherwise - on the blog forum.
To mark the halfway point of this challenge, I decided to seek the opinions of my friends and family, via the medium of a group email. Did they think I'd get this far? Do they think I'll make the full year? Do they care?
The first thing I discovered is that nearly all of my so-called friends have changed email addresses and failed to tell me. It is unclear whether this is because they are bored of my tee-totalism, or just bored of me.
Anyhoo, here's a selection of those who haven't changed emails, could be bothered to respond, and did write something worth noting. With my responses, natch.
Matt Laddin:
Did you think I'd make it this far?
No
Do you think I'll do another six months?
No
Do you care?
No
(WB: Ooh, catty. You can tell he used to be a 3am girl.)
Don:
I'm confident in your determination to see it through but am hoping
for a spectacular fall off the wagon - preferably just before the 12
months are up. Don't know why - just seems apt.
I couldn't care less whether you drink or not but have really enjoyed reading about your exploits. If you would rather have insults to publish however, try this:
'Please finish soon and get back to ruining other people's lives
rather than you own, you journo-scum.'
Cheers
Don
PS. We still on for this weekend?
(WB: Yes.)
Caesar:
I assumed you would do it, as, despite your obvious love of the booze, I didn't think you'd allow yourself to make such a big claim and then fail, thereby giving friends and foe the opportunity to rip into you.
(WB: Oh really? Well I've checked your email from December, and it says nothing of the sort. Just bangs on about marathon training.)
Rob:
good luck son. I'm proud of you.
(WB: Rob, we've been through this. You're not my father.)
Raj:
I think I thought that you'd struggle a bit more than you have.
When you have bored me over the last six months I have struggled to figure out
whether that's because of the lack of booze or your inherent dullness.
(WB: Ha ha ha!!! Great one, mate! LOL! :) I'd say something vitriolic back, but Raj is this blog's greatest publicist, so I can't risk offending him...)
Seriously, thanks to all who responded. All readers, whether you know me personally or not, should feel free to leave messages - abusive or otherwise - on the blog forum.
Sunday, 1 July 2007
Sunday July 1 - Halfway To Paradise
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been SIX MONTHS and 21 hours since my last drink.
So, I'm halfway there. Six months of needless, self-imposed misery down, six months to go. Only another 182 days - or 4,368 hours - of wasted fun and social isolation left. Er, woo-hoo...I think.
I feel like the marathon runner who reaches the 13-mile mark and allows himself a brief moment of elation. Then remembers he now has to run another 13 agonising miles on aching feet, swollen knees, burning lungs and the very real prospect of coming face to face with Claire Balding.
Despite this residual cup-half-empty feeling, I did intend to treat this weekend as a celebration. So, naturally, God helped to facilitate the party by flooding the country with torrential rain, allowing the cops to discover an Al-Qaida bomb factory some 50 metres from my home (well, a house was raided by anti-terror police, which is nearly the same thing), and striking me down with a rather nasty stomach bug. I won't go into details but let's just say that, like my Jihadist neighbour, I felt like I was going to 'explode' at any minute.
I should really have stayed in bed on Saturday to recover, but I was keen to go out - not only to mark my six-month achievement but also to bid farewell to smoking in pubs. Although not a smoker now, I've enjoyed many a beer-and-cig combination over the years, and I do feel slightly sad that the classic smokey boozer has been killed off by the Nanny state. It's like losing a mate. OK, a mate who robbed you blind and gave you cancer, but still a mate.
Graham and Gregg were also determined to give legal smoking a proper send-off. They thought long and hard about the options, and decided the best plan was to sit in several dingey pubs and chain smoke. Oh yes, and drink copious amounts of lager. Well, it's what he would have wanted.
We stared out in Monro's, on Duke Street, at around 5pm, and moved on to the Jacarana, on Slater Street, from 6-8pm. I've never been that keen on the Jac, but I have to say that sitting at a window table and watching the Saturday night momentum slowly build outside was ideal for me. I could listen to Gregg and Graham's increasingly drunken ramblings, then zone out for a while and watch hen parties of extremely fat women try to run across wet cobbles in high heels. Brilliant.
To be fair to G and G, they did provide a lot of amusement for me throughout the night. Perhaps the imminent somoking ban was lending an end-of-term feel to the occasion, but they became a pair of comedy drunks. I won't recount all the japery but my favourite moment was watching the pair of them get extremely excited at recognising a bloke, Adam Mulcaster, in Alma de Santiago (nee Dovedale Towers) who used to play in a rival football team in their Sunday league some three years ago.
Both of them were hanging over a balcony, screaming "Mulcaster! Mulcaster! MULCASTER!" until the bemused chap - who was apparently trying to enjoy a quiet night out with his lady - eventually looked up and failed to recognise either of them.
Gregg, looking slightly crestfallen, pointed at himself and Graham and shouted their team name: "Inter Me Nan".
Ah, you can change a pub's name and push up prices all you like, but you can't buy class.
It's weird that even after spending the last six months watching my mates turn into dribbling, gibbering buffoons while on the lash, I still want to join them. But I really do.
Ho hum. Only six months to go.
So, I'm halfway there. Six months of needless, self-imposed misery down, six months to go. Only another 182 days - or 4,368 hours - of wasted fun and social isolation left. Er, woo-hoo...I think.
I feel like the marathon runner who reaches the 13-mile mark and allows himself a brief moment of elation. Then remembers he now has to run another 13 agonising miles on aching feet, swollen knees, burning lungs and the very real prospect of coming face to face with Claire Balding.
Despite this residual cup-half-empty feeling, I did intend to treat this weekend as a celebration. So, naturally, God helped to facilitate the party by flooding the country with torrential rain, allowing the cops to discover an Al-Qaida bomb factory some 50 metres from my home (well, a house was raided by anti-terror police, which is nearly the same thing), and striking me down with a rather nasty stomach bug. I won't go into details but let's just say that, like my Jihadist neighbour, I felt like I was going to 'explode' at any minute.
I should really have stayed in bed on Saturday to recover, but I was keen to go out - not only to mark my six-month achievement but also to bid farewell to smoking in pubs. Although not a smoker now, I've enjoyed many a beer-and-cig combination over the years, and I do feel slightly sad that the classic smokey boozer has been killed off by the Nanny state. It's like losing a mate. OK, a mate who robbed you blind and gave you cancer, but still a mate.
Graham and Gregg were also determined to give legal smoking a proper send-off. They thought long and hard about the options, and decided the best plan was to sit in several dingey pubs and chain smoke. Oh yes, and drink copious amounts of lager. Well, it's what he would have wanted.
We stared out in Monro's, on Duke Street, at around 5pm, and moved on to the Jacarana, on Slater Street, from 6-8pm. I've never been that keen on the Jac, but I have to say that sitting at a window table and watching the Saturday night momentum slowly build outside was ideal for me. I could listen to Gregg and Graham's increasingly drunken ramblings, then zone out for a while and watch hen parties of extremely fat women try to run across wet cobbles in high heels. Brilliant.
To be fair to G and G, they did provide a lot of amusement for me throughout the night. Perhaps the imminent somoking ban was lending an end-of-term feel to the occasion, but they became a pair of comedy drunks. I won't recount all the japery but my favourite moment was watching the pair of them get extremely excited at recognising a bloke, Adam Mulcaster, in Alma de Santiago (nee Dovedale Towers) who used to play in a rival football team in their Sunday league some three years ago.
Both of them were hanging over a balcony, screaming "Mulcaster! Mulcaster! MULCASTER!" until the bemused chap - who was apparently trying to enjoy a quiet night out with his lady - eventually looked up and failed to recognise either of them.
Gregg, looking slightly crestfallen, pointed at himself and Graham and shouted their team name: "Inter Me Nan".
Ah, you can change a pub's name and push up prices all you like, but you can't buy class.
It's weird that even after spending the last six months watching my mates turn into dribbling, gibbering buffoons while on the lash, I still want to join them. But I really do.
Ho hum. Only six months to go.
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