Monday November 26 - Booze, booze, everywhere - but not a drop to drink

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been ten months, 25 days and 20 hours since my last drink.

So, it turns out there is such a thing as a free lunch. Particularly when you work for a spanking new radio station. And, of course, all those free lunches come with lashings of free booze - none of which I've been able to drink.

God I'm an idiot. Why do I have to make life so hard for myself?

My first lost opportunity was on Wednesday night. My friends Kate and Andy have started a posh handbag shop in Liverpool city centre, and they kindly invited me to the grand opening. It was a pretty glam do, complete with a WAG (Abi Clancy), a page three stunna (Katie Downes) and a drooling pervert (hi fans!).

Naturally, it also came complete with free-flowing champagne all night. I had an orange juice, which was very nice and all that but it hardly gave me the necessary fortification to have a crack at La Clancy while her lanky fella was busy losing to Croatia. She clearly wanted to approach me, the poor girl, but it was hard with Mrs Batch keeping a watchful eye over her prize beau (moi).

The next missed chance was on Friday night, when most of the CityTalk staff ended up on the guest list for the re-opening of the refurbished Living Room, in Liverpool city centre. I couldn't tell the difference, to be honest. One coat of magnolia paint looks much like the other to me, but it was still a great freebie. Proper cocktails, wine and beer was all on tap for the night. I had another orange juice, and tried to ride the vitamin C rush.

And then on Sunday I was invited to a racing day at Aintree by my journo-turned-PR pals Jon and Jane. Free entry, free lunch and - yet again - apparently unlimited bottles of beer and wine, all at the expense of some kindly, faceless corporation. I had a sparkling mineral water. Mmmmmm, refreshing. I then lost on all but one of the six races, having miraculously been placed on a table with the only two Irishmen at Aintree who knew absolutely bugger-all about horses. Red faces? Yes. Tweed jackets? You betcha. But could they produce a decent tip between them? Could they feck.

Now, I've been to a few corporate days at the races, and lost at all of them. But in the past I've always consoled myself by necking as much free booze as possible to offset the gambling deficit. That was obviously not an option yesterday, although I did manage to make a serious dent in that bottle of Highland Spring. If I could have polished off another couple of crates, I might have broken even. But I'd have wet myself on the Merseyrail train from around Kirkdale to Moorfields.

Oh well. Less than 40 days and 40 nights to go now until I can drink again. That's less than Jesus did in the desert. Then again, He didn't have a pair of comp tickets to the Radio City Local Heros Awards on Thursday night, complete with entry to the aftershow party at Mosquito. If that wouldn't have flushed Him out of the desert and into His gladrobes for the night, I don't know what would.

Saturday November 10 - Bailey-Belching Back Door Burglars

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 10 months, nine days and seven hours since my last drink.

Perhaps it was my fault for tempting fate. I did say that I wanted to experience all of life's rich tapestry without the comforting crutch of booze. But what I had in mind was all the fun stuff, mainly. Weddings, stag nights, birthdays, leaving do's - perhaps the occasional bull-running or tomato festival - that sort of thing.

Not coming home on a Friday night to find that some horrible little shits had smashed through my back door - a full-size pane of toughened double glazing, mind you - and ransacked the house before nicking my iPod, camcorder, digital cameras and collection of priceless Ming vases (better put that, in case I decide to get creative with the insurance claim).

Not only that, but they had trod mud through the house and even - quelle horreur - yanked the living room curtains shut without using the pulley chord, meaning most of the hooks have snapped off the rail. Some people have no manners.

To be honest, it could have been a lot worse. They didn't indulge in any gratuitous vandalism. They didn't clean us out. They even managed to resist following that fine burglars' tradition of shitting on the soft furnishings.

It was, however, a very unpleasant experience - particularly for Gemma, who was first home and was understandably scared that the intruders could still be in the house.

I had planned to stay in town after work for a big night out with the CityTalk and Radio City mob, but was barely halfway into my first refreshing cola when Gem called to break the bad news.

It wasn't that I particularly wanted a drink when I got home, but the situation cried out for me to pour myself a hefty slug of strong liquor. Why else do we keep bottles of revolting whiskey in the house apart from occasions such as these? I don't feel that I cut the right dash by striding manfully into the kitchen and necking a beaker of Robinsons Fruit & Barley. I did make it a strong one, though.

Bizarrely enough, I probably couldn't have touched the booze shelf even if I had wanted to. Why? Evidential reasons. One of the intruders had grabbed a bottle off the shelf and placed it on the dining room table, presumably intending to take it with him, or possibly to enjoy a quick slurp there and then - rifling through other people's possessions can be thirsty work, y'know, and even scumbag burglars need to take a break.

Anyway, of all the bottles he could have picked - champagne, whiskey, vodka, gin, rum - guess which one he went for?

Baileys Irish Cream.

Yup, the beverage of choice for today's hardened criminal is effectively a mildly alcoholic milkshake invented to keep granny quiet on Christmas Day. It looks (and quite probably tastes) like a priest's jizz, and has less kick than Heather Mills-McCartney.

I thought burglars spent their ill-gotten gains on smack? If the fuzz want to catch this one they'd be better off staking out HMV and looking for the scally buying a stack of Shirley Bassey CDs.

Oh, and before Mr Anonymous makes another of his witty comments, we keep the Baileys in the house for guests. (Oh, alright then, I do like a dash in my coffee de temps en temps.)

The rest of my non-boozing week pales into insignificance by comparison, but I'll note it for the record, as it's been a social whirlwind

Last Friday. Went to Lief and then the Richmond Tavern with the usual crowd, plus Gregg's father-in-law, who's a lovely man but calls everyone "Shag" for some reason. I think it's a Welsh thing. Anyway, they got pissed and I didn't.

Saturday. Went to a fancy dress and fireworks party at a friend's house in Allerton. As usual, felt a little bit fed up to be drinking non-alcoholic beer while everyone else got stuck into the proper stuff. Was slightly cheered, however, when my unimpaired reflexes enabled me to jump from the path of a misfired rocket which appeared to be heading straight for my groin.

Monday. Went to a proper fireworks display in Sefton Park with Gem, Jim, Tam, Hannah and baby Alan. A fantastic display, but one which would have been improved with a hip flask of whiskey (outdoor events and post-trauma are really the only times this drink should be taken neat).

Tuesday. Met Duncan, the presenter who I'll be producing on CityTalk. Took him to the bright lights of Lark Lane for a mini-pub crawl and curry. He respects my teetotalitarianism but I suspect he's looking forward to me coming to my sense in January - particularly as he mentioned on more than one occasion that our working day should "finish with a few beers at around 3pm". Ulp - I can see my good work being undone fast next year.

Wednesday. Out with Gem, Gregg and Graham in Penny Lane Wine Bar. Had a heated debate about migrant workers in Dubai. As you do.

Friday. Planned to have a few drinks in town before going to a lecture by Phil Redmond. Had to cancel and rush home due to the burglary. Every cloud...

Today and tomorrow. Off to Brum later for a family party at Gem's followed by the Blues-Villa derby on Sunday.

Unless, of course, you happen to be a burglar planning to come back for the rest of that Baileys. In which case, I'll be spending the next 48-hours sitting by the back door with just a loaded shotgun and Tony Martin's autobiography for company.

Oh well, at least they didn't take the computer. Stealing this blog from humanity - now that would be unforgivable.

Thursday November 1 - Are you there God? It's me, Will.

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been ten months and 17 hours since my last drink.

Well, the good news is that I'm still on the wagon. The bad news is that - as regular readers may have noticed - I appear to have lost all will to update this blog.

Originally, I thought I'd need the blog to help me get through this alcohol-free year. People like me (show offs) can't just do things with quiet dignity - we need regular pats on the head from an adoring public.

However, as it turns out, writing about my sobriety has become more of a chore than staying off the booze in the first place. The irony is not lost on me. In fact, I'm considering emailing Alanis Morisette.

It's not even like I haven't had things to write about. Life has been pretty exciting, as it goes. There's the new job, for starters, which I'm loving. Then there was the rugby world cup final, which very nearly drove me to drink (not the result - I didn't care about that - but the fact that I watched it in a pub down south where the drinkers actually sang the national anthem . Weird, eh? I nearly had a brandy to quell the shock.

Then there has been the power of the internet. Within just seven days, I had two separate nights out with two old school friends who emailed me out of the blue following a ten-year silence. (Adam Searle and Catherine Kitson, fact fans).

Then there has been the usual relentless cycle of boozy nights in and nights out with my south Liverpool band of brothers.

All of these events were potential blog fodder but, frankly, I just couldn't be arsed.

So what has prompted this brief flurry of activity? Well, at the risk of attaching slightly more importance to this project thank is justified, I think God has yet again stuck his oar in.

Remember back in September, when I was on the verge of quitting, and within minutes God had arranged for a bottle of champagne to be delivered to my front door (I interpreted this as a positive and encouraging sign)?

Well, to shake me from my blog stupor, He has hit me with a triple whammy today.

First off, it's November 1, and the passing of another month always gives a boost.

Secondly, I arrived in work to find not one but two emails from well-wishers, asking if I had finally caved in. Well, I say well-wishers, but it was Chris Fellows and Ben Banyard, possibly just inquiring in the hope that I might actually be more fun over the festive season.

Thirdly, I was called by a woman who has written a book called Beat The Booze, which is being released in January next year. Like me, she was a social drinker who went teetotal when she became sick of the booze merrirgoround. She had no idea I was a fellow teetotaller, and was ringing in a professional capacity. However, I lost no time in telling her about my blog (told you I was a show off), so thought I'd better update just in case she actually reads it. It's a keeping up with the Jones thing, you understand.

Anyway, thanks God. Do me a favour and give me a nudge in December, cos I can feel myself getting bored again.