My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been nine months, 16 days and 20 hours since my last drink.
Blah blah another dry week blah blah lots of orange juice blah blah went somewhere at the weekend blah blah God I'm shit at golf blah blah had a few drinks in Penny Lane Wine Bar blah blah Gregg did something blah blah sometimes feel quite bored blah blah then feel a bit better.
Etcetera etcetera.
Wednesday, 17 October 2007
Tuesday, 9 October 2007
Tuesday October 9 - O.J.O.D
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been nine months, eight days and 20 hours since my last drink.
If I have to taste one more frigging orange juice I'm going to start wearing a white suit and calling myself the man from Del Monte. (You hear an awful lot about how the developed world exploits third world farmers, these days, but they always seemed positively cock-a-hoop to get the nod from that famous panama hat, didn't they? You do the math.)
Back in Brum last weekend, my sister Charlotte said she couldn't believe how often I went to the pub and/or generally socialised. At the time, I wrote it off as the embittered ramblings of a former party animal turned country bumpkinified mother-of-two. However, it seems she may have a point. I've spent five of the last seven nights in a boozy setting. They were as follows:
Tuesday. Met Gregg and Graham at Lief, the newly re-named Alma de Santiago (yes, that'll stop us remembering that two doormen were gunned down there six weeks ago), then on to the Penny Lane Wine Bar. I had three pints of orange juice and soda, and a lively debate about X-Factor.
Thursday. Met Graham at Penny Lane Wine Bar. Two pints of soda and OJ, and a lively debate about the health and safety implications of hatstands.
Friday. Out in Manchester for the leaving do of my old PA colleague Charlie Hamilton. I drank four pints of soda and OJ, which could have been a slightly embarrassing drink to order in fashionable Manchester on a Friday night. Thankfully, the flu-ridden Charlie was drinking hot toddies all night, which shone the spotlight of humiliation rather neatly back onto him. I mean, a hot toddy? That's one step away from asking the barman for a cuddle.
Sunday. Had a few people over for a long, long Sunday lunch. Drank three pints of soda and OJ.
Monday. Had Helen and Adam over for dinner. Drank fizzy grape juice. Well, you don't want to get stuck drinking the same thing all the time, do you?
To be fair, my mood has lifted considerably since my last blog entry, when I was considering calling it a day. Despite the massive orange juice overdose (henceforth known as OJOD), I realy enjoyed my nights out/in and didn't hanker for booze at all. So, do I think I'll stick it out until December 31?
The man from Del Monte, he say yes!
If I have to taste one more frigging orange juice I'm going to start wearing a white suit and calling myself the man from Del Monte. (You hear an awful lot about how the developed world exploits third world farmers, these days, but they always seemed positively cock-a-hoop to get the nod from that famous panama hat, didn't they? You do the math.)
Back in Brum last weekend, my sister Charlotte said she couldn't believe how often I went to the pub and/or generally socialised. At the time, I wrote it off as the embittered ramblings of a former party animal turned country bumpkinified mother-of-two. However, it seems she may have a point. I've spent five of the last seven nights in a boozy setting. They were as follows:
Tuesday. Met Gregg and Graham at Lief, the newly re-named Alma de Santiago (yes, that'll stop us remembering that two doormen were gunned down there six weeks ago), then on to the Penny Lane Wine Bar. I had three pints of orange juice and soda, and a lively debate about X-Factor.
Thursday. Met Graham at Penny Lane Wine Bar. Two pints of soda and OJ, and a lively debate about the health and safety implications of hatstands.
Friday. Out in Manchester for the leaving do of my old PA colleague Charlie Hamilton. I drank four pints of soda and OJ, which could have been a slightly embarrassing drink to order in fashionable Manchester on a Friday night. Thankfully, the flu-ridden Charlie was drinking hot toddies all night, which shone the spotlight of humiliation rather neatly back onto him. I mean, a hot toddy? That's one step away from asking the barman for a cuddle.
Sunday. Had a few people over for a long, long Sunday lunch. Drank three pints of soda and OJ.
Monday. Had Helen and Adam over for dinner. Drank fizzy grape juice. Well, you don't want to get stuck drinking the same thing all the time, do you?
To be fair, my mood has lifted considerably since my last blog entry, when I was considering calling it a day. Despite the massive orange juice overdose (henceforth known as OJOD), I realy enjoyed my nights out/in and didn't hanker for booze at all. So, do I think I'll stick it out until December 31?
The man from Del Monte, he say yes!
Monday, 1 October 2007
Monday October 1 - I'll get by with a little help from my friends. But not my family.
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been nine months and 20 hours since my last drink.
Well, you may recall that last week I was getting fed up with the project and was seriously considering knocking it on the head.
Since then I've had a fantastic, action-packed weekend. Saturday was pretty much the perfect day: golf, football, and foreign food with family. OK, so in the perfect day, I'd have gone around Augusta in par rather than around Huyton Municipal in 134, and I'd have watched Blues beat Man Utd 1-0 rather than vice versa, and the foreign food would have been from India instead of Morocco, but it was still a brilliant day.
So did it reduce my yearning for booze? Did it bollocks.
By Saturday night, the cravings were stronger than ever. So strong were they that I began to talk seriously to anyone who would listen about why it wouldn't be so bad to start drinking again now.
In a nutshell, my arguments were as follows:
1. I've done nine months, which is still a decent achievement.
2. Apart from Christmas, there are no challenges left, so what's the point?
3. This may well be the only Christmas in my career which I get to myself (the media is a 365-days-a-year machine, but CityTalk doesn't launch until January).
4. I'm so BORED of not drinking.
I put this theory to two separate focus groups - my beer-swilling football mates, and my sister Charlotte, who is a primary school teacher and the devoted mother of two young boys.
The two responses were very different.
One was along the lines of: "Don't sell yourself short. You've set yourself a target of 12 months without booze, and anything less would be a failure. Just be strong, and believe in yourself."
The other was more like: "If you want to drink over Christmas, just do it. What do you think is going to happen on New Year's Day if you go the whole year without drinking? You're not going to win a prize. Just get pissed and have some fun."
In case you hadn't guessed (in which case, you must be pissed) the second of those pieces of advice was from Charlotte. The first came jointly from Eddie and Karl as they stood, swaying gently, outside the Adam and Eve pub in Digbeth.
I just don't know who to believe. I think I'll go with Eddie and Karl's advice for now, but only because it sounded like a speech from The Wonder Years, which I was very fond of back in the day. (Charlotte's advice sounded more like something from Teachers, which got a bit tired after series two.)
Anyway, I survived Saturday, and the family party at mum and dad's house on Sunday was relatively easy, even though the booze was relatively free-flowing, and there was even a hilariously-titled bottle of Knob Creek whisky on the go. I had a good day, and by Sunday evening was glad that my sobriety remained in tact.
As I write this, I feel perfectly calm and am not craving booze at all. I suppose I'd had my tantrum on Saturday and ran out of steam. Even the squawkiest of brats has to get up off the floor at Tesco eventually.
I can't promise it won't be the last, though. I sense that this final quarter could be the hardest of them all, and any thoughts of an easy home straight have disappeared faster than a bottle of Knob Creek at a tramp's picnic.
Well, you may recall that last week I was getting fed up with the project and was seriously considering knocking it on the head.
Since then I've had a fantastic, action-packed weekend. Saturday was pretty much the perfect day: golf, football, and foreign food with family. OK, so in the perfect day, I'd have gone around Augusta in par rather than around Huyton Municipal in 134, and I'd have watched Blues beat Man Utd 1-0 rather than vice versa, and the foreign food would have been from India instead of Morocco, but it was still a brilliant day.
So did it reduce my yearning for booze? Did it bollocks.
By Saturday night, the cravings were stronger than ever. So strong were they that I began to talk seriously to anyone who would listen about why it wouldn't be so bad to start drinking again now.
In a nutshell, my arguments were as follows:
1. I've done nine months, which is still a decent achievement.
2. Apart from Christmas, there are no challenges left, so what's the point?
3. This may well be the only Christmas in my career which I get to myself (the media is a 365-days-a-year machine, but CityTalk doesn't launch until January).
4. I'm so BORED of not drinking.
I put this theory to two separate focus groups - my beer-swilling football mates, and my sister Charlotte, who is a primary school teacher and the devoted mother of two young boys.
The two responses were very different.
One was along the lines of: "Don't sell yourself short. You've set yourself a target of 12 months without booze, and anything less would be a failure. Just be strong, and believe in yourself."
The other was more like: "If you want to drink over Christmas, just do it. What do you think is going to happen on New Year's Day if you go the whole year without drinking? You're not going to win a prize. Just get pissed and have some fun."
In case you hadn't guessed (in which case, you must be pissed) the second of those pieces of advice was from Charlotte. The first came jointly from Eddie and Karl as they stood, swaying gently, outside the Adam and Eve pub in Digbeth.
I just don't know who to believe. I think I'll go with Eddie and Karl's advice for now, but only because it sounded like a speech from The Wonder Years, which I was very fond of back in the day. (Charlotte's advice sounded more like something from Teachers, which got a bit tired after series two.)
Anyway, I survived Saturday, and the family party at mum and dad's house on Sunday was relatively easy, even though the booze was relatively free-flowing, and there was even a hilariously-titled bottle of Knob Creek whisky on the go. I had a good day, and by Sunday evening was glad that my sobriety remained in tact.
As I write this, I feel perfectly calm and am not craving booze at all. I suppose I'd had my tantrum on Saturday and ran out of steam. Even the squawkiest of brats has to get up off the floor at Tesco eventually.
I can't promise it won't be the last, though. I sense that this final quarter could be the hardest of them all, and any thoughts of an easy home straight have disappeared faster than a bottle of Knob Creek at a tramp's picnic.
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