My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 30 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
SIX HOURS TO GO!
My heart is pounding. My cheeks are flushed. My palms are sweating. Every pore in my body is crying out for a drink.
Not an alcoholic drink. It would be a bit weird to start going cold turkey six hours shy of an entire year.
No, I've just tasted the chilli salsa I've spent half the afternoon slaving over and I think I should probably have heeded Jamie's advice to deseed the chillis. I need water.
My fingers are red raw from chilli juice, my back is aching from the day's labour, and I'm covered in that rich cooking sweat which clings to your head.
But am I downhearted?
No siree. Because in less than six hours time, sweet mommy alcohol is coming to kiss away the pain.
Quick checklist.
Champagne in fridge? Check.
Wine in fridge? Check.
Beer chilling in boot of car because no room in fridge due to all the champagne and wine? Check.
Self-restraint, self-respect and selflessness all hanging by a thread, ready to be thrown out the window at midnight? Triple check, baby.
Let's go to work.
Monday, 31 December 2007
Monday December 31 - So, What Was The Point Again?
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 30 days and 10 hours since my last drink.
14 HOURS TO GO!
Back in the darkest days of this project - ie, any time before my mood lifted in early December - I thought I would awake today feeling like a kid on Christmas Eve. But that's not quite accurate. I feel more like a virgin on prom night. Yes, I'm excited about what lies ahead (I'm talking about drinking booze, now, not being deflowered in the back of a Cadillac by some sweaty-handed quarterback) but I'm also a little bit nervous.
What if it's not as good as I hoped?
What if it feels really horrible?
What if I don't like the taste, or it makes me gag? (Yes, I'm definitely still talking about booze, thank you.)
At least I know that I won't be geting totally plastered tonight, as I can't drink any alcohol until midnight. Yes, I could play catch up and try to get inebriated before Big Ben has struck his final bong, but I doubt I'll do that. On every one of my sober nights this year, any alcohol cravings have disappeared long before midnight. By that time, I've usually felt quite glad that I'm having a good time and I won't have a killer hangover in the morning.
Having said that, maybe the sense of occasion will take over and I'll get lost in the moment. And when I say lost, I mean pissed.
Anyway, I've got three bottles of champagne in the fridge - one of which is all mine! - and eight people coming round in nine hours for an Egyptian-themed dinner party. I'll be playing the part of Tom Tom, a local tour guide. Thankfully, my costume is already sorted. I did a lot of research on the Internet into Egyptian dress and the different styles worn by men of various rank, status and religion in the different regions of this vast and complex country. Then I went to Primark and bought a white bed sheet and a chequered tea-towel for four quid. Job done.
Alas, I do have to buy and cook dinner, and make a start on tidying the house. So any thoughts of spending today writing a long and thoughtful blog entry on this momentous occasion are out the window. In lieu of that, please enjoy this hastily written - but honest - Frequently Asked Questions session.
F.A.Qs
So have you really not drank all year?
I honestly have not touched a drop. I'd tell you if I had. In fact, I always planned to have a relapse at some stage as I thought it would make for a more interesting read. But the moment never quite arose and after I reached the halfway stage I became obsessed with simply completing the year.
Does that include alcohol in food?
I think I may have had the odd stew with a splash of wine thrown in, but I understand that all the alcohol is burned off. I made every effort to avoid puddings with alcohol in them, and even yesterday I had to spit out a chocolate I had randomly selected because it tasted of rum.
Didn't your friends just spike your drink for a laugh?
I'm sure they were tempted to, but I'm fairly sure they didn't. They may well decide to tell me otherwise at about 11.55pm tonight.
Why did you do it?
I could write for hours on this question, but you'd get bored and I'd be faced with some very hungry Egyptian-themed dinner guests tonight. Suffice to say I wanted a challenge, I wanted something to write about, and I wanted to see if my life (which was already very blessed) got any better without the millstone of alcohol around my neck.
Has it been a success?
I'd say yes on every count. Yes, it was a challenge. Yes, it was something to write about and yes, my life got better in quite a few ways.
Has it been a roaring success?
Probably not, if I'm being honest.
I don't think the challenge was as great as I thought it might be. I was never addicted to alcohol in any serious way, so giving it up was just a question of gritting my teeth and getting on with it. Life without booze is tough, but you can still have a great time. Perhaps I'm also guilty of not pushing myself enough, I never did go to the Munich Beer Festival.
I think I also failed to pull up any trees with the writing side of things. There's only so many ways you can write about a bunch of relatively sensible 30-somethings who like to go out and get pissed, but are still quite good company. Maybe I should have made more effort to go out with some more volatile groups - spending the night sober with a bunch of squaddies on the lash in Colchester, for example, would probably throw up a few more tales than sitting in the Penny Lane Wine Bar with Gregg and Graham. But, frankly, I didn't want to.
As for my life getting better, it is almost impossible to say how much of this is down to my sobriety. I've got a great new job, I'm a stone lighter, several grand richer, and my marriage seems better than ever. But I like to think a lot of that would have happened anyway. Apart from the weight loss thing.
Would you do it again?
If anyone ever hears me threatening to do this again, they have my permission to shoot me. Or just get me really pissed until I forget about it.
I do, however, plan to have at least one month off the booze every year.
What was your worst non-drinking moment?
So many contenders. Being forced to sip nothing but mineral water throughout a free wine-tasting evening with one of Italy's top sommeliers in January was tough. Staying sober at not one but two of my own leaving do's was a killer. Watching Gary and Gregg wrestle each other at 4am in a crowded street in Puerto Banus also sticks in the mind.
But all of those experiences had their lighter sides. For pure misery, I'll always come back to the Saturday afternoon of Gregg's stag do in Krakow in June. Sitting in that beer garden while watching every last one of my mates turn into leering, boggle-eyed, aggressive, loudmouth, ranting gobshites was one of the most painful experiences I can remember.
What was your best non-drinking moment?
Thankfully, there have also been many good moments. They all share a theme, which is me realising that I was having an absolutely fantastic time despite - or sometimes even because - I wasn't drinking. Walking through the streets of Barcelona at about 4am after a top night out on Cumbi's stag do springs to mind. (As does the following morning, when my flight back to Liverpool was cancelled and I had to act fast to avoid being stuck there until Wednesday - there's no way I'd have managed that with a hangover.)
Managing to throw off my sober inhibitions long enough to hit the dance floors at all three weddings (Cumbi and Cathy, Gregg and Hannah, Dave and Emma) will also stay with me.
When did you most miss drinking?
Always at the start of the night. Nothing compares to that first hit of strong lager, or Guinness, or red wine. Especially when you mix them together with two parts Cointreau and a dash of lime.
I don't really miss getting drunk. But I do miss drinking.
Also, after golf. To wash away the pain.
Do you think you'll just give up booze forever now?
No, no and thrice no.
Will you go back to your old drinking habits?
I hope not to. I really hope I can remember the lessons of this year, which are basically that some nights need alcohol but many do not. And even those that do need alcohol don't generally need you to stay up drinking flaming Sambucas until 5am.
I plan to drink less on the big nights out, drink much less or even nothing at all on the quiet nights out, and give myself one or two months abstinence in any year. But make sure those months don't coincide with any major social events.
What will you give up next year?
Nothing. I'm done with giving stuff up. It's time to choose life.
14 HOURS TO GO!
Back in the darkest days of this project - ie, any time before my mood lifted in early December - I thought I would awake today feeling like a kid on Christmas Eve. But that's not quite accurate. I feel more like a virgin on prom night. Yes, I'm excited about what lies ahead (I'm talking about drinking booze, now, not being deflowered in the back of a Cadillac by some sweaty-handed quarterback) but I'm also a little bit nervous.
What if it's not as good as I hoped?
What if it feels really horrible?
What if I don't like the taste, or it makes me gag? (Yes, I'm definitely still talking about booze, thank you.)
At least I know that I won't be geting totally plastered tonight, as I can't drink any alcohol until midnight. Yes, I could play catch up and try to get inebriated before Big Ben has struck his final bong, but I doubt I'll do that. On every one of my sober nights this year, any alcohol cravings have disappeared long before midnight. By that time, I've usually felt quite glad that I'm having a good time and I won't have a killer hangover in the morning.
Having said that, maybe the sense of occasion will take over and I'll get lost in the moment. And when I say lost, I mean pissed.
Anyway, I've got three bottles of champagne in the fridge - one of which is all mine! - and eight people coming round in nine hours for an Egyptian-themed dinner party. I'll be playing the part of Tom Tom, a local tour guide. Thankfully, my costume is already sorted. I did a lot of research on the Internet into Egyptian dress and the different styles worn by men of various rank, status and religion in the different regions of this vast and complex country. Then I went to Primark and bought a white bed sheet and a chequered tea-towel for four quid. Job done.
Alas, I do have to buy and cook dinner, and make a start on tidying the house. So any thoughts of spending today writing a long and thoughtful blog entry on this momentous occasion are out the window. In lieu of that, please enjoy this hastily written - but honest - Frequently Asked Questions session.
F.A.Qs
So have you really not drank all year?
I honestly have not touched a drop. I'd tell you if I had. In fact, I always planned to have a relapse at some stage as I thought it would make for a more interesting read. But the moment never quite arose and after I reached the halfway stage I became obsessed with simply completing the year.
Does that include alcohol in food?
I think I may have had the odd stew with a splash of wine thrown in, but I understand that all the alcohol is burned off. I made every effort to avoid puddings with alcohol in them, and even yesterday I had to spit out a chocolate I had randomly selected because it tasted of rum.
Didn't your friends just spike your drink for a laugh?
I'm sure they were tempted to, but I'm fairly sure they didn't. They may well decide to tell me otherwise at about 11.55pm tonight.
Why did you do it?
I could write for hours on this question, but you'd get bored and I'd be faced with some very hungry Egyptian-themed dinner guests tonight. Suffice to say I wanted a challenge, I wanted something to write about, and I wanted to see if my life (which was already very blessed) got any better without the millstone of alcohol around my neck.
Has it been a success?
I'd say yes on every count. Yes, it was a challenge. Yes, it was something to write about and yes, my life got better in quite a few ways.
Has it been a roaring success?
Probably not, if I'm being honest.
I don't think the challenge was as great as I thought it might be. I was never addicted to alcohol in any serious way, so giving it up was just a question of gritting my teeth and getting on with it. Life without booze is tough, but you can still have a great time. Perhaps I'm also guilty of not pushing myself enough, I never did go to the Munich Beer Festival.
I think I also failed to pull up any trees with the writing side of things. There's only so many ways you can write about a bunch of relatively sensible 30-somethings who like to go out and get pissed, but are still quite good company. Maybe I should have made more effort to go out with some more volatile groups - spending the night sober with a bunch of squaddies on the lash in Colchester, for example, would probably throw up a few more tales than sitting in the Penny Lane Wine Bar with Gregg and Graham. But, frankly, I didn't want to.
As for my life getting better, it is almost impossible to say how much of this is down to my sobriety. I've got a great new job, I'm a stone lighter, several grand richer, and my marriage seems better than ever. But I like to think a lot of that would have happened anyway. Apart from the weight loss thing.
Would you do it again?
If anyone ever hears me threatening to do this again, they have my permission to shoot me. Or just get me really pissed until I forget about it.
I do, however, plan to have at least one month off the booze every year.
What was your worst non-drinking moment?
So many contenders. Being forced to sip nothing but mineral water throughout a free wine-tasting evening with one of Italy's top sommeliers in January was tough. Staying sober at not one but two of my own leaving do's was a killer. Watching Gary and Gregg wrestle each other at 4am in a crowded street in Puerto Banus also sticks in the mind.
But all of those experiences had their lighter sides. For pure misery, I'll always come back to the Saturday afternoon of Gregg's stag do in Krakow in June. Sitting in that beer garden while watching every last one of my mates turn into leering, boggle-eyed, aggressive, loudmouth, ranting gobshites was one of the most painful experiences I can remember.
What was your best non-drinking moment?
Thankfully, there have also been many good moments. They all share a theme, which is me realising that I was having an absolutely fantastic time despite - or sometimes even because - I wasn't drinking. Walking through the streets of Barcelona at about 4am after a top night out on Cumbi's stag do springs to mind. (As does the following morning, when my flight back to Liverpool was cancelled and I had to act fast to avoid being stuck there until Wednesday - there's no way I'd have managed that with a hangover.)
Managing to throw off my sober inhibitions long enough to hit the dance floors at all three weddings (Cumbi and Cathy, Gregg and Hannah, Dave and Emma) will also stay with me.
When did you most miss drinking?
Always at the start of the night. Nothing compares to that first hit of strong lager, or Guinness, or red wine. Especially when you mix them together with two parts Cointreau and a dash of lime.
I don't really miss getting drunk. But I do miss drinking.
Also, after golf. To wash away the pain.
Do you think you'll just give up booze forever now?
No, no and thrice no.
Will you go back to your old drinking habits?
I hope not to. I really hope I can remember the lessons of this year, which are basically that some nights need alcohol but many do not. And even those that do need alcohol don't generally need you to stay up drinking flaming Sambucas until 5am.
I plan to drink less on the big nights out, drink much less or even nothing at all on the quiet nights out, and give myself one or two months abstinence in any year. But make sure those months don't coincide with any major social events.
What will you give up next year?
Nothing. I'm done with giving stuff up. It's time to choose life.
Sunday, 30 December 2007
Sunday December 30 - Please Drink Irresponsibly
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 29 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
30 HOURS TO GO!
Went round to Graham and Ali's house last night to play board games, and found myself craving a bottle of red wine.
Not to drink, you understand, but I could have used it as a handy club with which to repeatedly beat myself about the head until the pain had gone away.
Playing Trivial Pursuit can be a stressful business at the best of times. Playing it with seven people who are all at varying levels of intoxication (the only common factor being they were all more pissed than me) - and who, if we're being honest, had varying levels of interest in and understanding of the game itself - was an exhausting experience.
Don't get me wrong. I had a good night. But there's only so many times you can hear John asking "What colour are we again?", Jimmy hilariously giving out wrong answers, Gemma slurring at me to "stop patronising me" (I only asked her if she wanted a go at rolling the die) and Tam and Ali saying "why can't we just play Pictionary?" before you just want to cry.
And there was me thinking a cosy night of parlour games would be a nice easy way to stay off the booze. Thankfully, my gracious hosts had very kindly bought a load of booze-free Becks, which I used to kid my body that it was getting the anaesthetic it so richly deserved.
Watching my fellow players could have made me feel superior. They were all red faces, slurred words and inane banter. But in fact I envied them. I wanted to feel like they did - not like some sober wallflower who's only high that night would be winning Pictionary (albeit by quite some distance, I might add.)
It reminded me of a radio ad campaign for a new soft drink by Schweppes which has been played a lot over the last few days. The ad is a conversation between two pals who talk about staying sober in a manner normally reserved for tales of drunken debauchery.
So, annoying woman #1 says: "Oh my God, I can't believe how sober I was last night!"
Annoying woman #2 replies: "Yeah, I heard you on the karaoke. You didn't hit a wrong note all night!"
Annoying woman #1 says: "And do you remember how I gave everyone else a turn!"
And so it goes on. The message being that by drinking Schweppes' refreshing new beverage you won't wake up feeling embarrassed the morning after the night before. It's not the worst radio ad ever, but it seems to me they are missing the point about going out on the lash. Losing your inhibitions and acting like a prat is all part and parcel of the drinking experience. It is part of the fun, and more importantly you make an unspoken pact with all the other drinkers in the venue - whether that be the trendiest bar in town, or a night of board games round your mate's house. The deal is that they won't mind the fact that you acted like a drunken buffoon because - and here's the good part - they won't remember it. Because they were too wrapped up in their own world of drunken buffoonery to take a blind bit of notice.
The only sand in the ointment is jumped up little prigs like me who sit, smugly sipping on sour fruit juices, and remembering everything.
And for that - to all those who have kindly kept me company during this year of sobriety - I apologise.
Oh well. At least I won't be able to sit in sober judgement on any more of my friends making drunken fools of themselves this year.
Apart from all those coming to the Egyptian-themed murder mystery party round at my gaff tomorrow night. OK, I promise to stop judging people in 2008.
30 HOURS TO GO!
Went round to Graham and Ali's house last night to play board games, and found myself craving a bottle of red wine.
Not to drink, you understand, but I could have used it as a handy club with which to repeatedly beat myself about the head until the pain had gone away.
Playing Trivial Pursuit can be a stressful business at the best of times. Playing it with seven people who are all at varying levels of intoxication (the only common factor being they were all more pissed than me) - and who, if we're being honest, had varying levels of interest in and understanding of the game itself - was an exhausting experience.
Don't get me wrong. I had a good night. But there's only so many times you can hear John asking "What colour are we again?", Jimmy hilariously giving out wrong answers, Gemma slurring at me to "stop patronising me" (I only asked her if she wanted a go at rolling the die) and Tam and Ali saying "why can't we just play Pictionary?" before you just want to cry.
And there was me thinking a cosy night of parlour games would be a nice easy way to stay off the booze. Thankfully, my gracious hosts had very kindly bought a load of booze-free Becks, which I used to kid my body that it was getting the anaesthetic it so richly deserved.
Watching my fellow players could have made me feel superior. They were all red faces, slurred words and inane banter. But in fact I envied them. I wanted to feel like they did - not like some sober wallflower who's only high that night would be winning Pictionary (albeit by quite some distance, I might add.)
It reminded me of a radio ad campaign for a new soft drink by Schweppes which has been played a lot over the last few days. The ad is a conversation between two pals who talk about staying sober in a manner normally reserved for tales of drunken debauchery.
So, annoying woman #1 says: "Oh my God, I can't believe how sober I was last night!"
Annoying woman #2 replies: "Yeah, I heard you on the karaoke. You didn't hit a wrong note all night!"
Annoying woman #1 says: "And do you remember how I gave everyone else a turn!"
And so it goes on. The message being that by drinking Schweppes' refreshing new beverage you won't wake up feeling embarrassed the morning after the night before. It's not the worst radio ad ever, but it seems to me they are missing the point about going out on the lash. Losing your inhibitions and acting like a prat is all part and parcel of the drinking experience. It is part of the fun, and more importantly you make an unspoken pact with all the other drinkers in the venue - whether that be the trendiest bar in town, or a night of board games round your mate's house. The deal is that they won't mind the fact that you acted like a drunken buffoon because - and here's the good part - they won't remember it. Because they were too wrapped up in their own world of drunken buffoonery to take a blind bit of notice.
The only sand in the ointment is jumped up little prigs like me who sit, smugly sipping on sour fruit juices, and remembering everything.
And for that - to all those who have kindly kept me company during this year of sobriety - I apologise.
Oh well. At least I won't be able to sit in sober judgement on any more of my friends making drunken fools of themselves this year.
Apart from all those coming to the Egyptian-themed murder mystery party round at my gaff tomorrow night. OK, I promise to stop judging people in 2008.
Friday, 28 December 2007
Friday December 28 - I Have A Dream
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 27 days and nine hours since my last drink.
THREE DAYS AND 15 HOURS LEFT!
I think I might have started to yearn.
I had the most wonderful dream on Boxing Night. I dreamed I was in a bar at about a quarter to midnight on New Year's Eve. I was chatting to people about how much I was looking forward to boozing again, and what my first drink would be (a conversation I've had about, ooh, 48 times this month), when somebody pointed out that it was five past midnight.
I felt elated that my marathon was over and yet slightly peeved to have missed the big countdown to midnight.
I think this might be a warning from my subconscious. It's telling me not to look forward to the Big Day too much, as it will inevitably disappoint. Or maybe it's just my body telling me to hurry up and get to the bar.
Either way, it is interesting that it took me nearly the whole year to dream about booze. My friend Nick recently told me that as a teenager he gave up, erm, self-abuse, because he wanted to have erotic dreams. He saw them as a source of free porn, but had to wait for a full three months until he had one.
So - and here comes the science bit - that means that Nick was four times more addicted to onanism than I am to alcohol. Pervert.
Gem and I spent Boxing Day at her parents' house in the Black Country and we are now down in Devon visiting my sister Charlotte, Jim, and kids. I hope this explains why I haven't blogged for a few days, as the internet has not been invented yet in either place. In fact, even this brief message I had to scrawl on a piece of parchment and pay an urchin half a crown to cycle it to London. I just pray it reaches you. God speed, little man.
THREE DAYS AND 15 HOURS LEFT!
I think I might have started to yearn.
I had the most wonderful dream on Boxing Night. I dreamed I was in a bar at about a quarter to midnight on New Year's Eve. I was chatting to people about how much I was looking forward to boozing again, and what my first drink would be (a conversation I've had about, ooh, 48 times this month), when somebody pointed out that it was five past midnight.
I felt elated that my marathon was over and yet slightly peeved to have missed the big countdown to midnight.
I think this might be a warning from my subconscious. It's telling me not to look forward to the Big Day too much, as it will inevitably disappoint. Or maybe it's just my body telling me to hurry up and get to the bar.
Either way, it is interesting that it took me nearly the whole year to dream about booze. My friend Nick recently told me that as a teenager he gave up, erm, self-abuse, because he wanted to have erotic dreams. He saw them as a source of free porn, but had to wait for a full three months until he had one.
So - and here comes the science bit - that means that Nick was four times more addicted to onanism than I am to alcohol. Pervert.
Gem and I spent Boxing Day at her parents' house in the Black Country and we are now down in Devon visiting my sister Charlotte, Jim, and kids. I hope this explains why I haven't blogged for a few days, as the internet has not been invented yet in either place. In fact, even this brief message I had to scrawl on a piece of parchment and pay an urchin half a crown to cycle it to London. I just pray it reaches you. God speed, little man.
Tuesday, 25 December 2007
Tuesday December 25th - I'm dreaming of a dry Christmas
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 24 days and 17 hours since my last drink.
SIX DAYS AND SEVEN HOURS LEFT! (THAT'S LESS THAN A WEEK!)
Christmas without booze is a strange thing. It's now 5pm on the big day and, although I've had a perfectly nice time, I still feel like I'm waiting for Chritsmas to actually happen. That's probably because, in my social alkie's mind, Christmas ain't Christmas until you've got that slightly giddy pleasure of being half cut before noon.
Last year I was getting stuck into the Kir Royales (well it is a gay time of year) with breakfast, and onto the strong German beer by the time the Queen (ironically another strong German) was delivering her speech. This year I'm not even allowed to have brandy butter with my Christmas pudding. Which is a shame, because brandy butter is the only thing that makes Christmas pudding even vaguely palatable.
On the plus side, by 5pm on a normal Christmas the fun effects of the alcohol would be wearing off, only to be replaced by a feeling of flush-faced tetchiness. My paper crown would by now be translucent and stuck to my forehead by a sheen of turkey and Sambuca-flavoured sweat. I would be competing for pole position in some kind of unofficial farting contest and the bags under my eyes would begin to resemble the dark meat from a turkey's more unmentionable regions.
Instead, I feel fighting fit and fresh as a daisy. I've had a light lunch, a few apple juices and a bracing walk along the canal. I'm looking forward to a proper Christmas dinner, a couple of films and I'm pretty sure to have a good night's sleep.
Does it feel good? Yes.
Does it feel Christmassey? Nah.
Oh well, the good news is that among a haul of brilliant pressies my folks have given me six bottles of nice-looking wine "to get me started again". I'm genuinely excited at the tought of necking them. And Hannah (my sister) has given me a bottle of what claims to be "the world's strongest lager". It's 14%, which is rather intimidating, but I'm sure I'll find it a good home at around five past midnight on New Year's Day.
Happy Christmas.
PS. Christmas Eve used to be one of the highlights of my drinking calendar - from the mammoth home brew parties I hosted from around the age of 15, to classic school reunion nights in the dodgy hostelries of Solihull and Digbeth, to staggering along Allerton Road when I was supposed to be on call. Last night, however, I went to the Richmond Tavern, had two Britvic 55s (one apple, one orange) and a sparkling mineral water. It's lucky I'm on sobriety autopilot these days, because that kind of behaviour is just wrong, wrong, wrong.
SIX DAYS AND SEVEN HOURS LEFT! (THAT'S LESS THAN A WEEK!)
Christmas without booze is a strange thing. It's now 5pm on the big day and, although I've had a perfectly nice time, I still feel like I'm waiting for Chritsmas to actually happen. That's probably because, in my social alkie's mind, Christmas ain't Christmas until you've got that slightly giddy pleasure of being half cut before noon.
Last year I was getting stuck into the Kir Royales (well it is a gay time of year) with breakfast, and onto the strong German beer by the time the Queen (ironically another strong German) was delivering her speech. This year I'm not even allowed to have brandy butter with my Christmas pudding. Which is a shame, because brandy butter is the only thing that makes Christmas pudding even vaguely palatable.
On the plus side, by 5pm on a normal Christmas the fun effects of the alcohol would be wearing off, only to be replaced by a feeling of flush-faced tetchiness. My paper crown would by now be translucent and stuck to my forehead by a sheen of turkey and Sambuca-flavoured sweat. I would be competing for pole position in some kind of unofficial farting contest and the bags under my eyes would begin to resemble the dark meat from a turkey's more unmentionable regions.
Instead, I feel fighting fit and fresh as a daisy. I've had a light lunch, a few apple juices and a bracing walk along the canal. I'm looking forward to a proper Christmas dinner, a couple of films and I'm pretty sure to have a good night's sleep.
Does it feel good? Yes.
Does it feel Christmassey? Nah.
Oh well, the good news is that among a haul of brilliant pressies my folks have given me six bottles of nice-looking wine "to get me started again". I'm genuinely excited at the tought of necking them. And Hannah (my sister) has given me a bottle of what claims to be "the world's strongest lager". It's 14%, which is rather intimidating, but I'm sure I'll find it a good home at around five past midnight on New Year's Day.
Happy Christmas.
PS. Christmas Eve used to be one of the highlights of my drinking calendar - from the mammoth home brew parties I hosted from around the age of 15, to classic school reunion nights in the dodgy hostelries of Solihull and Digbeth, to staggering along Allerton Road when I was supposed to be on call. Last night, however, I went to the Richmond Tavern, had two Britvic 55s (one apple, one orange) and a sparkling mineral water. It's lucky I'm on sobriety autopilot these days, because that kind of behaviour is just wrong, wrong, wrong.
Sunday, 23 December 2007
Sunday December 23 - Am I Cheating?
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 22 days and 16 hours since my last drink.
EIGHT DAYS AND EIGHT HOURS LEFT!
While I do feel that I've done well for nearly reaching the end of this marathon project, I'm slightly disappointed in myself this weekend.
In my drinking days, I would have gone out and made a serious dent in my liver on the weekend before Christmas. Particularly if I was off work for the next 10 days - which I am.
By the strict rules of ths challenge, then, I should have been out larging it all weekend. I should have been knocking back the OJ-and-sodas in town on Friday, while watching all the office shindigs descend into fighting and snog-fests. I should have been out among the Sana hats and Rudolph antlers last night, singing along to FairyTale In New York and elbowing my way through crowds of part-time drinkers to get to the bar and order my refreshing mineral waters. At the very least I should have crowbarred myself into Penny Lane Wine Bar for a festive Kaliber.
But I didn't. On Friday the closest I came to going out was when I went ice skating for half an hour. Well, say ice skating, but it was more like shuffling around a 12ft square piece of plastic inside St George's Hall. The best thing about that was being pulled over on the way there in a random Merseyside Police drink-drive crackdown.
The copper, who looked like he may well have been out past his bedtime, said: "Have you had a drink tonight, sir?"
"No," I replied.
"What about earlier today?" asked the pipsqueak.
"No, none at all." I said.
"So you think you'd pass a breathalyser test if we asked you to take one right now?" he said.
"Well, considering my last drink was on New Year's Eve last year, sunshine," I replied, "I reckon I might just pass with flying colours. Now why don't you let me get on my way, you fascist pig. I'll have you know I'm late for an extremely important ice skating appointment."
OK, so that last bit wasn't really true. I actually didn't mention my year of sobriety at all because I was concerned that such an admission would make me sound like a raving madman, and they'd want to pin something on me just to get me off the streets.
But wouldn't it have been ace if I had said that.
As for last night, I actually volunteered to forego a night out in favour of watching the Strictly Come Dancing final round at Jimmy and Tam's. And tonight I'm going to the cinema to watch a soppy Christmas film with Gem. I know, I know - next year I'm going to have a year of undiluted heterosexuality to make amends.
But to be honest, I feel like I've now drunk enough bloody fruit juice and soda to last me a lifetime. I'll probably go to the pub on Christmas Eve - and I'll probably enjoy it - but right now I just can't be arsed facing the Christmas crowds without a fortifying egg nog inside me.
Cheating? Possibly, but who really cares. I feel like a cyclist at the end of a stage on the Tour de France. I know I should be sprinting to the finish line but, frankly, I'm happy to freewheel this last bit, and just be glad that I've made it to the end in one piece.
EIGHT DAYS AND EIGHT HOURS LEFT!
While I do feel that I've done well for nearly reaching the end of this marathon project, I'm slightly disappointed in myself this weekend.
In my drinking days, I would have gone out and made a serious dent in my liver on the weekend before Christmas. Particularly if I was off work for the next 10 days - which I am.
By the strict rules of ths challenge, then, I should have been out larging it all weekend. I should have been knocking back the OJ-and-sodas in town on Friday, while watching all the office shindigs descend into fighting and snog-fests. I should have been out among the Sana hats and Rudolph antlers last night, singing along to FairyTale In New York and elbowing my way through crowds of part-time drinkers to get to the bar and order my refreshing mineral waters. At the very least I should have crowbarred myself into Penny Lane Wine Bar for a festive Kaliber.
But I didn't. On Friday the closest I came to going out was when I went ice skating for half an hour. Well, say ice skating, but it was more like shuffling around a 12ft square piece of plastic inside St George's Hall. The best thing about that was being pulled over on the way there in a random Merseyside Police drink-drive crackdown.
The copper, who looked like he may well have been out past his bedtime, said: "Have you had a drink tonight, sir?"
"No," I replied.
"What about earlier today?" asked the pipsqueak.
"No, none at all." I said.
"So you think you'd pass a breathalyser test if we asked you to take one right now?" he said.
"Well, considering my last drink was on New Year's Eve last year, sunshine," I replied, "I reckon I might just pass with flying colours. Now why don't you let me get on my way, you fascist pig. I'll have you know I'm late for an extremely important ice skating appointment."
OK, so that last bit wasn't really true. I actually didn't mention my year of sobriety at all because I was concerned that such an admission would make me sound like a raving madman, and they'd want to pin something on me just to get me off the streets.
But wouldn't it have been ace if I had said that.
As for last night, I actually volunteered to forego a night out in favour of watching the Strictly Come Dancing final round at Jimmy and Tam's. And tonight I'm going to the cinema to watch a soppy Christmas film with Gem. I know, I know - next year I'm going to have a year of undiluted heterosexuality to make amends.
But to be honest, I feel like I've now drunk enough bloody fruit juice and soda to last me a lifetime. I'll probably go to the pub on Christmas Eve - and I'll probably enjoy it - but right now I just can't be arsed facing the Christmas crowds without a fortifying egg nog inside me.
Cheating? Possibly, but who really cares. I feel like a cyclist at the end of a stage on the Tour de France. I know I should be sprinting to the finish line but, frankly, I'm happy to freewheel this last bit, and just be glad that I've made it to the end in one piece.
Friday, 21 December 2007
Friday December 21 - Woooorrks Out For Christmas
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 20 days and 16 hours since my last drink.
10 DAYS AND EIGHT HOURS TO GO!
Sorry to be so smug - fair comment, Chris - but it does seem that the final stretch of this project is more of a Disney cheese-fest than a gritty kitchen sink drama.
As far as I can tell, there will be no denouement in which I am found passed out and soggy-trousered at 10.45pm on the 31st.
This Christmas run-up continues to go relatively smoothly. The Liverpool Album launch was a bit of a let down, as expected (I never thought I'd actually hear myself using the phrase: "I preferred the original Atomic Kitten version.") but I braved it out on a heady mixture of soda water and pure, manly grit.
Last night could have been messy, as I went for a post-work Christmas curry with Duncan, Chris and Ali. We've been feeling pretty demob happy all week and I feared a potential lapse during that 5pm to 7pm pre-meal session in the pub. However, as 'luck' would have it, I was asked to run out on a news job at 4.30pm and didn't finish until after 7, so that particular window of festive cheer was slammed shut.
And even this morning, when the boss provided mulled wine and beer during the comms meeting (God, I love working here), I stuck to the tea.
Tonight we're having a works trip to the temporary ice rink inside St George's Hall, with yet more mulled wine a-flowing. Providing I resist that - which I'm fairly sure I will, even if it does smell so damn good - that will be my last work-related act as a sober man.
I'll next be in work on January 2nd, when I'll be free to drink whatever the hell I like.
I think I should feel elated but it just feels...weird. Oh well, I'm sure I'll get used to it. And if I feel in any way awkward or unsettled by this new-found freedom, I can just drink my way through it.
10 DAYS AND EIGHT HOURS TO GO!
Sorry to be so smug - fair comment, Chris - but it does seem that the final stretch of this project is more of a Disney cheese-fest than a gritty kitchen sink drama.
As far as I can tell, there will be no denouement in which I am found passed out and soggy-trousered at 10.45pm on the 31st.
This Christmas run-up continues to go relatively smoothly. The Liverpool Album launch was a bit of a let down, as expected (I never thought I'd actually hear myself using the phrase: "I preferred the original Atomic Kitten version.") but I braved it out on a heady mixture of soda water and pure, manly grit.
Last night could have been messy, as I went for a post-work Christmas curry with Duncan, Chris and Ali. We've been feeling pretty demob happy all week and I feared a potential lapse during that 5pm to 7pm pre-meal session in the pub. However, as 'luck' would have it, I was asked to run out on a news job at 4.30pm and didn't finish until after 7, so that particular window of festive cheer was slammed shut.
And even this morning, when the boss provided mulled wine and beer during the comms meeting (God, I love working here), I stuck to the tea.
Tonight we're having a works trip to the temporary ice rink inside St George's Hall, with yet more mulled wine a-flowing. Providing I resist that - which I'm fairly sure I will, even if it does smell so damn good - that will be my last work-related act as a sober man.
I'll next be in work on January 2nd, when I'll be free to drink whatever the hell I like.
I think I should feel elated but it just feels...weird. Oh well, I'm sure I'll get used to it. And if I feel in any way awkward or unsettled by this new-found freedom, I can just drink my way through it.
Wednesday, 19 December 2007
Wednesday December 19 - Help! I Need Some Boozey
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 18 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
13 DAYS AND 6 HOURS TO GO - THAT'S LESS THAN A FORTNIGHT, PEOPLE!
Hmmmm. Beginning to wish I hadn't been so boastful about my imperviousness to temptation this month. I'm just about to go to the launch of an album called Liverpool - The Number Ones Album.
It's basically a load of Liverpool artists doing cover versions of songs by other Liverpool artists.
Here's just a selection of the joys to come...
Three Shirts On A Line, by the Scaffold (that's their hilariously revised title, not mine)
You Spin Me Right Round, by Atomic Kitten
You To Me Are Everything, by Ray Quinn
Ferry Across The Mersey, by The Real People
I think I might need a hefty snifter after listening to that lot.
Oh well. It's all for charidee, mate.
Wish me luck.
13 DAYS AND 6 HOURS TO GO - THAT'S LESS THAN A FORTNIGHT, PEOPLE!
Hmmmm. Beginning to wish I hadn't been so boastful about my imperviousness to temptation this month. I'm just about to go to the launch of an album called Liverpool - The Number Ones Album.
It's basically a load of Liverpool artists doing cover versions of songs by other Liverpool artists.
Here's just a selection of the joys to come...
Three Shirts On A Line, by the Scaffold (that's their hilariously revised title, not mine)
You Spin Me Right Round, by Atomic Kitten
You To Me Are Everything, by Ray Quinn
Ferry Across The Mersey, by The Real People
I think I might need a hefty snifter after listening to that lot.
Oh well. It's all for charidee, mate.
Wish me luck.
Tuesday, 18 December 2007
Tuesday December 18 - Return of The Fear?
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 17 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
13 DAYS AND SIX HOURS TO GO!
A thought struck me yesterday evening. It was both worrying and encouraging in equal measure.
I am now so used to sleeping soundly on a Sunday night that I had nearly forgotten about The Fear.
The Fear, as discussed at the beginning of this blog, is that creeping sense of paranoia which begins at around 6pm on the Sunday of a heavy weekend. By the time you go to bed it is a massive black cloud of depression and discomfort which keeps you awake, no matter how tired you are.
The Fear is what makes Mondays so unbearable for so many people, yet it is entirely avoidable. I have skipped through nearly every Monday of 2007 simply because, no matter how late I stayed up, I haven't drunk ridiculous amounts of that well-known depressant, alcohol.
So what was the thought that struck me on Monday? Well, I finish work this Friday and won't be back in until January 2nd, 2008. And that's a Wednesday.
So by the time I work my next Monday, I'll be boozing again. Which means I'll be Fearful again. It's a nice thought, in a way, as it is yet another sign that this sober year is nearly up. But it's also a nasty thought, because I've rather enjoyed not being a sweaty, grumpy, nervous wreck for one-fifth of every working week.
Of course, I don't have to be Fearful on Mondays in 2008. Just because I can drink again, that doesn't mean I have to.
It's just a strong possibility that I will.
Oh well. Who needs nice Mondays anyway?
13 DAYS AND SIX HOURS TO GO!
A thought struck me yesterday evening. It was both worrying and encouraging in equal measure.
I am now so used to sleeping soundly on a Sunday night that I had nearly forgotten about The Fear.
The Fear, as discussed at the beginning of this blog, is that creeping sense of paranoia which begins at around 6pm on the Sunday of a heavy weekend. By the time you go to bed it is a massive black cloud of depression and discomfort which keeps you awake, no matter how tired you are.
The Fear is what makes Mondays so unbearable for so many people, yet it is entirely avoidable. I have skipped through nearly every Monday of 2007 simply because, no matter how late I stayed up, I haven't drunk ridiculous amounts of that well-known depressant, alcohol.
So what was the thought that struck me on Monday? Well, I finish work this Friday and won't be back in until January 2nd, 2008. And that's a Wednesday.
So by the time I work my next Monday, I'll be boozing again. Which means I'll be Fearful again. It's a nice thought, in a way, as it is yet another sign that this sober year is nearly up. But it's also a nasty thought, because I've rather enjoyed not being a sweaty, grumpy, nervous wreck for one-fifth of every working week.
Of course, I don't have to be Fearful on Mondays in 2008. Just because I can drink again, that doesn't mean I have to.
It's just a strong possibility that I will.
Oh well. Who needs nice Mondays anyway?
Sunday, 16 December 2007
Sunday December 16 - The Office Xmas Bash
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 15 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
15 DAYS AND SIX HOURS TO GO!
Went to the office Christmas bash last night. Unlike the office parties of sitcoms - which are surely the only office parties to be held in the office - this one took place in a great pub called the Blackburne Arms, near Liverpool city centre.
At the start of the year, I would have cited the works Christmas bash as one of the drinking highlights of any given year. It is right up there in the Holy Trinity of binge drinking: weddings, stag nights, works xmas do.
However, as I've said previously, I feel so elated at being so close to achieving my year-long goal that nothing really daunts me right now. What's two more weeks of sobriety after 11 and a half months?
My mood was lifted even further on Saturday morning, as we put up the Christmas decorations. In previous years, this traditional Saturday morning chore would usually end in tears as I would struggle to fit a seven-foot tree into a Nissan Micra while sweating Guinness and kebab through every pore, including my eyeballs, then disagree with Gem over the correct way to fix the lights (I say wind them round, she says drape and zig zag).
But on the back of a sober night's sleep, we had the job done sans aggro in less than two hours. Moreover, as soon as the decs were up, it reminded me of the house last December, when I first took this stupid vow. They are a visual reminder that the cycle is almost complete.
On that mind set, the office do was a doddle. Yes, it was a long shift - 7.30pm to 3.30am by my watch. Yes, it was a total sickener that Radio City had laid on yet another free bar, which I could exploit to nothing more than a booze-free Becks (which ran out by 9pm) or sparkling water. Yes, it was slightly embarrassing being forced to dance to Celine Dion's I Know My Heart Will Go On by a slightly woozy lady from Sales. And, yes, perhaps I would have had the nerve to join in the various dance offs or even the Hokey Cokey with a bit of Dutch courage.
But was it a trial? Not at all. I had great fun watching my colleagues get slowly bladdered and - in no particular order - puke in the yard, fall over, show off their party knickers, make spazzy faces behind each other's backs and generally bitch, backstab, gossip, confess, leer, letch, flirt and occasionally grope their way into the small hours. It was ace fun.
I actually do feel slightly hungover today. Probably due to the lack of sleep but maybe because it is impossible to be around so much drunkenness without at least some of it seeping in through the skin. But even so, I still reckon I'll have the brightest eyes and bushiest tail in the tower tomorrow, by some distance.
15 DAYS AND SIX HOURS TO GO!
Went to the office Christmas bash last night. Unlike the office parties of sitcoms - which are surely the only office parties to be held in the office - this one took place in a great pub called the Blackburne Arms, near Liverpool city centre.
At the start of the year, I would have cited the works Christmas bash as one of the drinking highlights of any given year. It is right up there in the Holy Trinity of binge drinking: weddings, stag nights, works xmas do.
However, as I've said previously, I feel so elated at being so close to achieving my year-long goal that nothing really daunts me right now. What's two more weeks of sobriety after 11 and a half months?
My mood was lifted even further on Saturday morning, as we put up the Christmas decorations. In previous years, this traditional Saturday morning chore would usually end in tears as I would struggle to fit a seven-foot tree into a Nissan Micra while sweating Guinness and kebab through every pore, including my eyeballs, then disagree with Gem over the correct way to fix the lights (I say wind them round, she says drape and zig zag).
But on the back of a sober night's sleep, we had the job done sans aggro in less than two hours. Moreover, as soon as the decs were up, it reminded me of the house last December, when I first took this stupid vow. They are a visual reminder that the cycle is almost complete.
On that mind set, the office do was a doddle. Yes, it was a long shift - 7.30pm to 3.30am by my watch. Yes, it was a total sickener that Radio City had laid on yet another free bar, which I could exploit to nothing more than a booze-free Becks (which ran out by 9pm) or sparkling water. Yes, it was slightly embarrassing being forced to dance to Celine Dion's I Know My Heart Will Go On by a slightly woozy lady from Sales. And, yes, perhaps I would have had the nerve to join in the various dance offs or even the Hokey Cokey with a bit of Dutch courage.
But was it a trial? Not at all. I had great fun watching my colleagues get slowly bladdered and - in no particular order - puke in the yard, fall over, show off their party knickers, make spazzy faces behind each other's backs and generally bitch, backstab, gossip, confess, leer, letch, flirt and occasionally grope their way into the small hours. It was ace fun.
I actually do feel slightly hungover today. Probably due to the lack of sleep but maybe because it is impossible to be around so much drunkenness without at least some of it seeping in through the skin. But even so, I still reckon I'll have the brightest eyes and bushiest tail in the tower tomorrow, by some distance.
Friday, 14 December 2007
Friday December 14 - Showbiz Makes Me Thirsty
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 13 days and 18 hours since my last drink.
17 DAYS AND SIX HOURS TIL BIG BEN BRINGS BOOZE! (That's the clock. Not some kind of butch delivery service.)
I felt an incredibly strong urge to go for a pint or six at about 2pm today.
Ever since joining City Talk I've been mooting the idea of a topical news quiz show, along similar lines to Have I Got News For You.
It was one of those scary projects which could always be displaced by something more mundane. So that's what I did.
Until today, that is, when I finally bit the bullet and - with much help from producers Kim and Ali - we actually did a pilot.
Trying to be funny in public is nerve-wracking. Trying to be funny in front of two professional comics, two experienced broadcasters and a host of tech ops and producers is, well, brown pants time.
To be fair, it went pretty well. I ummed and ahed a bit, messed up a couple of cues, and forgot to prrrrroooooject my flat Brummie vowels properly, but I got a few laughs and so did the panellists.
After the hour was up I felt that heady mixture of elation and relief that only alcohol could match. Unsurprisingly, it was exactly the same feeling I had after standing in for Pete Price's late-night show back in April. Avoiding alcohol was easier back then, as it was 1am on a wet Wednesday night, with most of the pubs shut and no friends to drink with. Today, on the other hand, it would have been (and could still be) oh-so-easy to find a cosy boozer and a few pals to share my joy.
Still, so far so good. I settled for two cups of tea in the canteen, and I'll be off home shortly to bosh the rest of last night's curry and booze-free lager.
Yes, a proper pint would be nicer, but I'm not going to throw it away when I'm so close. Eyes on the prize, baby. Eyes on the prize.
17 DAYS AND SIX HOURS TIL BIG BEN BRINGS BOOZE! (That's the clock. Not some kind of butch delivery service.)
I felt an incredibly strong urge to go for a pint or six at about 2pm today.
Ever since joining City Talk I've been mooting the idea of a topical news quiz show, along similar lines to Have I Got News For You.
It was one of those scary projects which could always be displaced by something more mundane. So that's what I did.
Until today, that is, when I finally bit the bullet and - with much help from producers Kim and Ali - we actually did a pilot.
Trying to be funny in public is nerve-wracking. Trying to be funny in front of two professional comics, two experienced broadcasters and a host of tech ops and producers is, well, brown pants time.
To be fair, it went pretty well. I ummed and ahed a bit, messed up a couple of cues, and forgot to prrrrroooooject my flat Brummie vowels properly, but I got a few laughs and so did the panellists.
After the hour was up I felt that heady mixture of elation and relief that only alcohol could match. Unsurprisingly, it was exactly the same feeling I had after standing in for Pete Price's late-night show back in April. Avoiding alcohol was easier back then, as it was 1am on a wet Wednesday night, with most of the pubs shut and no friends to drink with. Today, on the other hand, it would have been (and could still be) oh-so-easy to find a cosy boozer and a few pals to share my joy.
Still, so far so good. I settled for two cups of tea in the canteen, and I'll be off home shortly to bosh the rest of last night's curry and booze-free lager.
Yes, a proper pint would be nicer, but I'm not going to throw it away when I'm so close. Eyes on the prize, baby. Eyes on the prize.
Thursday, 13 December 2007
Thursday December 13 - I'm on the turn.
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 12 days and 19 hours since my last drink.
18 DAYS AND FIVE HOURS TIL OBLIVION!
Every blog entry starts with my admission to being a social alcoholic, but I'm not even sure that's true any more..
It's nearly the end of a hard working week and I haven't thought about booze once all day.
One of my best pals has officially emigrated and I don't need a pint to cheer me up.
I'm cooking up a superhot curry downstairs and I don't even care that I won't be having a proper beer with it. (Although I do have a six-pack of non-alcoholic Bitburger Drive - God bless those Germans and their inventiveness in the field of party pooping.)
And even the looming shadow of the Radio City/City Talk Christmas party - which takes place in a pub on Saturday with karaoke and disco dancing - does not make me want to hit the bottle.
I think I'm cured.
18 DAYS AND FIVE HOURS TIL OBLIVION!
Every blog entry starts with my admission to being a social alcoholic, but I'm not even sure that's true any more..
It's nearly the end of a hard working week and I haven't thought about booze once all day.
One of my best pals has officially emigrated and I don't need a pint to cheer me up.
I'm cooking up a superhot curry downstairs and I don't even care that I won't be having a proper beer with it. (Although I do have a six-pack of non-alcoholic Bitburger Drive - God bless those Germans and their inventiveness in the field of party pooping.)
And even the looming shadow of the Radio City/City Talk Christmas party - which takes place in a pub on Saturday with karaoke and disco dancing - does not make me want to hit the bottle.
I think I'm cured.
Wednesday, 12 December 2007
Wednesday December 12 - Anniversary of an Idea
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 11 days and 22 hours since my last drink.
19 DAYS AND TWO HOURS TIL BOOZE O'CLOCK!
Today was a very special anniversary.
On December 12 last year I went to see Tenacious D play a gig in Manchester.
Despite Manchester lying just 35 miles east of Liverpool, this event required me to take not one but two days off work.
We had to take the Tuesday off to ensure that we got to Manchester with plenty of time spare to get drunk before the concert.
And we had to take the Wednesday off to ensure we had plenty of time spare to get even drunker after the concert.
Naturally, we also had to fork out for Travelodge rooms because none of us were willing to drive home, and we knew we'd be drinking until well after the last train.
It did not strike me until some time on Tuesday afternoon how ridiculous this was, and how much my life revolved around booze. I was not physically addicted to drink, but I never even tried to envisage a social event without it.
It was at this precise moment that I was struck by the idea of a sober year, and I still remember breaking the news to the lads in some grubby little boozer in Manchester that very night - before I lost my nerve or forgot all about it - that I would not touch a drop during 2007.
There have been a few times this year when I regretted being struck by that particular thunderbolt - and deciding to act on it - but there have been many more times when I was glad of it.
That doesn't mean I'm not gasping for a pint on January 1, though.
19 DAYS AND TWO HOURS TIL BOOZE O'CLOCK!
Today was a very special anniversary.
On December 12 last year I went to see Tenacious D play a gig in Manchester.
Despite Manchester lying just 35 miles east of Liverpool, this event required me to take not one but two days off work.
We had to take the Tuesday off to ensure that we got to Manchester with plenty of time spare to get drunk before the concert.
And we had to take the Wednesday off to ensure we had plenty of time spare to get even drunker after the concert.
Naturally, we also had to fork out for Travelodge rooms because none of us were willing to drive home, and we knew we'd be drinking until well after the last train.
It did not strike me until some time on Tuesday afternoon how ridiculous this was, and how much my life revolved around booze. I was not physically addicted to drink, but I never even tried to envisage a social event without it.
It was at this precise moment that I was struck by the idea of a sober year, and I still remember breaking the news to the lads in some grubby little boozer in Manchester that very night - before I lost my nerve or forgot all about it - that I would not touch a drop during 2007.
There have been a few times this year when I regretted being struck by that particular thunderbolt - and deciding to act on it - but there have been many more times when I was glad of it.
That doesn't mean I'm not gasping for a pint on January 1, though.
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
Tuesday December 11 - Stiffening Resolve
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, 10 days and 20 hours since my last drink.
20 DAYS AND FOUR HOURS TIL SOBRIETY IS SUNK!
I'm still so excited about the looming end of this year-long idiocy that I feel I can survive anything without booze.
Which is handy. Because watching your balding, badly dressed, 30-something mates have a dance off in a crowded nightclub at 1am on a Tuesday morning - a Tuesday morning, mind you - takes all the strength you have.
Even in my salad days, I'm not sure I went out dancing on a Monday night. Monday nights ain't for dancing. They're not even really for talking, moving, thinking, or doing any type of thing other than watching TV, or perhaps quietly weeping at the thought of another 40 years until retirement.
Anyway, we had to go out last night because Gregg flies to Dubai tomorrow and it was his final, final leaving do. I knew it must have been an important night because Jimmy had been given permission to come out by Tam.
It was supposed to be a civilised night in the Penny Lane Wine Bar. And it was civilised. For a while. About ten of us then went to Lief and, at around 11pm, it was time to give Gregg a manly hug and say my goodbyes.
So I did. But then he made me go to Heebie Jeebies. The WAGs sensibly retired at this stage, so it was just me, Gregg, Jimmy, Gary, Cardy, Graham, Carl and Nick who braved sub-zero temperatures and headed for town.
HJs was packed with the usual crowd of students and trendy urbane types, who seemed a bit sniffy at the sight of so many unappealing men dusting off our moves in the smokers' courtyard.
They seemed perplexed that Jimmy would actually pull on one of his massive woolly gloves to do a Michael Jackson impression.
They seemed annoyed that Gregg would run across the courtyard and dive into Carl's arms in homage to the famous Dirty Dancing lift.
They even looked slightly hostile when Carl performed a near perfect River Dance jig on the stage.
As the only sober man present, I must admit to finding their behaviour embarrassing and life-affirming in equal measure. Yes, it was painful to watch at times, but what's wrong with a group of mates trying to give their pal a proper send off? What's wrong with a bunch of ageing hipsters re-discovering the joy of moving to music? What's wrong with waving your hands in the air like you just don't care? And what's wrong with buying Gregg a pack of herbal Viagara tablets from the toilets, making him take the lot, and then spending the rest of the night bellowing "FRAY! FRAY! HAVE YOU GOT A BONER YET?" across the crowded courtyard?
Actually, to be fair, there is something very wrong with that last bit. Jimmy went too far with that. And Gregg definitely shouldn't have shown it off. Bet he doesn't do that in Dubai.
20 DAYS AND FOUR HOURS TIL SOBRIETY IS SUNK!
I'm still so excited about the looming end of this year-long idiocy that I feel I can survive anything without booze.
Which is handy. Because watching your balding, badly dressed, 30-something mates have a dance off in a crowded nightclub at 1am on a Tuesday morning - a Tuesday morning, mind you - takes all the strength you have.
Even in my salad days, I'm not sure I went out dancing on a Monday night. Monday nights ain't for dancing. They're not even really for talking, moving, thinking, or doing any type of thing other than watching TV, or perhaps quietly weeping at the thought of another 40 years until retirement.
Anyway, we had to go out last night because Gregg flies to Dubai tomorrow and it was his final, final leaving do. I knew it must have been an important night because Jimmy had been given permission to come out by Tam.
It was supposed to be a civilised night in the Penny Lane Wine Bar. And it was civilised. For a while. About ten of us then went to Lief and, at around 11pm, it was time to give Gregg a manly hug and say my goodbyes.
So I did. But then he made me go to Heebie Jeebies. The WAGs sensibly retired at this stage, so it was just me, Gregg, Jimmy, Gary, Cardy, Graham, Carl and Nick who braved sub-zero temperatures and headed for town.
HJs was packed with the usual crowd of students and trendy urbane types, who seemed a bit sniffy at the sight of so many unappealing men dusting off our moves in the smokers' courtyard.
They seemed perplexed that Jimmy would actually pull on one of his massive woolly gloves to do a Michael Jackson impression.
They seemed annoyed that Gregg would run across the courtyard and dive into Carl's arms in homage to the famous Dirty Dancing lift.
They even looked slightly hostile when Carl performed a near perfect River Dance jig on the stage.
As the only sober man present, I must admit to finding their behaviour embarrassing and life-affirming in equal measure. Yes, it was painful to watch at times, but what's wrong with a group of mates trying to give their pal a proper send off? What's wrong with a bunch of ageing hipsters re-discovering the joy of moving to music? What's wrong with waving your hands in the air like you just don't care? And what's wrong with buying Gregg a pack of herbal Viagara tablets from the toilets, making him take the lot, and then spending the rest of the night bellowing "FRAY! FRAY! HAVE YOU GOT A BONER YET?" across the crowded courtyard?
Actually, to be fair, there is something very wrong with that last bit. Jimmy went too far with that. And Gregg definitely shouldn't have shown it off. Bet he doesn't do that in Dubai.
Sunday, 9 December 2007
Sunday December 9 - Northern Uproar
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, eight days and 15 hours since my last drink.
22 DAYS AND NINE HOURS TIL SHOW TIME!
Ever seen one of those films where the cops raid a gambling den and all the tables magically flip over to replace the cards and booze etc with something innocent, like tea and cakes?
I went somewhere like that last night. But in this case the transformation was from sophisticated restaurant to chavtastic Butlins-style disco. And I absolutely love it.
Gem and I went to Manchester for a meal with some old uni pals. Emma and Dave, who live in the area, had chosen a classy-looking venue called Stock. It's housed in a former stock exchange just off Cross Street - a truly beautiful setting with an ornate domed ceiling, wooden panelling galore, and the whiff of old money seeping from every cornice.
Likewise, the menu was a sophisticated affair - scallops, wood pigeon, dover sole, and all the other stuff you don't tend to find on a Beefeater menu.
They even took our coats on arrival - for free! - a sure sign of a classy do.
So far, so posh. Yes, perhaps we should have smelled a rat when some of the finer details didn't stack up. But maybe the cheap crackers, complete with paper crowns, had been left out as an ironic touch of kitsch. Ditto the cheesey Christmas music, controlled by a tubby little DJ who looked like a fat Gordon Strachcan. Perhaps the fact that all the tables were laid out for parties of at least eight was simply a sign of the restaurant's success.
I suppose the first proper clue when fat Gordon began clearing tables from the middle of the room. Suddenly, the Christmas CD came off and some old classics crashed over the speakers. Barry White, Tom Jones, Glen Campbell.
"I think some dancing's going to break out within minutes," I told Dave.
I was right. Within 60 seconds a group of four middle aged women had shuffled onto Gordon's hastily improvised dance floor and began gingerly shaking their hips. Within seconds a rather brazen young lady who, in all honesty, was slightly too fleshy to be wearing that backless frock, leapt up from a different table and dragged a rather hapless looking man (let's call him Ken from Accounts) onto the clearing.
Moving almost too fast for the human eye, fat Gordon then pulled out his trump card. With all the skill of Captain Hook wearing mittens, he mixed in the unmistakeable sound of a Neil Diamond intro.
"Sweeeeeeet Caroline!", sang the speakers.
"Bah! Bah! Bah!" replied the crowd - many of them now waving their hands in the air for some synchronised swaying, shirt sleeves falling upwards to reveal muscular forearms covered with fading blue ink. And that was just the women.
"My God!", I cried. "It's a trap. We've gone and walked into an office party venue."
The look on Emma's face was priceless. Her classy night out had been hijacked by the guys and gals from Prontaprint. Fat Gordon was playing Abba by now, and backless dress girl was grinding her ample buttocks into Ken from Accounts' crotch. A gaggle of women were already gathered around one crying female outside the ladies' toilets - the first of many casualties. And our paper napkins were being blown off the table by the breeze caused by flapping bingo wings.
"This is fantastic," cried Murph, swinging his arms aloft to Hi Ho Silver Lining. "Let's stay here all night."
I agreed with him but others were keen to leave. We ended up in a trendy bar in the northern quarter. It was called Socio-Rehab, and sold cocktails which came with a Wham bar. There were no backless dresses - just faux vintage t-shirts with ironic slogans. There was no Neil Diamond - just gritty drum n bass. There was no synchronised arm-waving - although head-nodding was permitted, providing you didn't smile.
I didn't put up any resistance when Gem suggested hitting the road at about 12.30am. Nothing else was ever going to hold a candle to Stock.
I should have gone to bed when we got back to the Pool. Instead I went around to Jimmy's house and stayed up until 4.30am to watch the Hatton-Mayweather fight. Being sober meant this was the first late-night boxing match I've ever managed to stay awake for. I kinda wish I hadn't now, as it was sad to see Ricky looking so shell-shocked and humiliated after being royally pounded into the early hours.
No-one can ever really know how that feels. Although I reckon Ken from Accounts has a fairly good idea.
22 DAYS AND NINE HOURS TIL SHOW TIME!
Ever seen one of those films where the cops raid a gambling den and all the tables magically flip over to replace the cards and booze etc with something innocent, like tea and cakes?
I went somewhere like that last night. But in this case the transformation was from sophisticated restaurant to chavtastic Butlins-style disco. And I absolutely love it.
Gem and I went to Manchester for a meal with some old uni pals. Emma and Dave, who live in the area, had chosen a classy-looking venue called Stock. It's housed in a former stock exchange just off Cross Street - a truly beautiful setting with an ornate domed ceiling, wooden panelling galore, and the whiff of old money seeping from every cornice.
Likewise, the menu was a sophisticated affair - scallops, wood pigeon, dover sole, and all the other stuff you don't tend to find on a Beefeater menu.
They even took our coats on arrival - for free! - a sure sign of a classy do.
So far, so posh. Yes, perhaps we should have smelled a rat when some of the finer details didn't stack up. But maybe the cheap crackers, complete with paper crowns, had been left out as an ironic touch of kitsch. Ditto the cheesey Christmas music, controlled by a tubby little DJ who looked like a fat Gordon Strachcan. Perhaps the fact that all the tables were laid out for parties of at least eight was simply a sign of the restaurant's success.
I suppose the first proper clue when fat Gordon began clearing tables from the middle of the room. Suddenly, the Christmas CD came off and some old classics crashed over the speakers. Barry White, Tom Jones, Glen Campbell.
"I think some dancing's going to break out within minutes," I told Dave.
I was right. Within 60 seconds a group of four middle aged women had shuffled onto Gordon's hastily improvised dance floor and began gingerly shaking their hips. Within seconds a rather brazen young lady who, in all honesty, was slightly too fleshy to be wearing that backless frock, leapt up from a different table and dragged a rather hapless looking man (let's call him Ken from Accounts) onto the clearing.
Moving almost too fast for the human eye, fat Gordon then pulled out his trump card. With all the skill of Captain Hook wearing mittens, he mixed in the unmistakeable sound of a Neil Diamond intro.
"Sweeeeeeet Caroline!", sang the speakers.
"Bah! Bah! Bah!" replied the crowd - many of them now waving their hands in the air for some synchronised swaying, shirt sleeves falling upwards to reveal muscular forearms covered with fading blue ink. And that was just the women.
"My God!", I cried. "It's a trap. We've gone and walked into an office party venue."
The look on Emma's face was priceless. Her classy night out had been hijacked by the guys and gals from Prontaprint. Fat Gordon was playing Abba by now, and backless dress girl was grinding her ample buttocks into Ken from Accounts' crotch. A gaggle of women were already gathered around one crying female outside the ladies' toilets - the first of many casualties. And our paper napkins were being blown off the table by the breeze caused by flapping bingo wings.
"This is fantastic," cried Murph, swinging his arms aloft to Hi Ho Silver Lining. "Let's stay here all night."
I agreed with him but others were keen to leave. We ended up in a trendy bar in the northern quarter. It was called Socio-Rehab, and sold cocktails which came with a Wham bar. There were no backless dresses - just faux vintage t-shirts with ironic slogans. There was no Neil Diamond - just gritty drum n bass. There was no synchronised arm-waving - although head-nodding was permitted, providing you didn't smile.
I didn't put up any resistance when Gem suggested hitting the road at about 12.30am. Nothing else was ever going to hold a candle to Stock.
I should have gone to bed when we got back to the Pool. Instead I went around to Jimmy's house and stayed up until 4.30am to watch the Hatton-Mayweather fight. Being sober meant this was the first late-night boxing match I've ever managed to stay awake for. I kinda wish I hadn't now, as it was sad to see Ricky looking so shell-shocked and humiliated after being royally pounded into the early hours.
No-one can ever really know how that feels. Although I reckon Ken from Accounts has a fairly good idea.
Saturday, 8 December 2007
Saturday December 8 - I wanna roll with it
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, seven days and 11 hours since my last drink.
23 DAYS AND 13 HOURS TIL I POP MY CORK!
I could have written on several serious themes today. Last night, for example, I attended the first of many Christmas drinks parties, courtesy of my old PA pal - and regular reader of this blog - Emma Gunby. I could have explored the socio-economic reasoning behind the office Christmas bash, the hidden dangers of drinking with colleagues, and the creeping sense of isolation felt by teetotallers around the festive period.
After a few drinks in town, I then met up with Gregg in the Penny Lane Wine Bar for our last ever Friday night out before he moves to Dubai. I could have described this momentous occasion and perhaps mused upon the role of alcohol in our long and fantastic friendship. I might even have described the Penny Lane Wine Bar as the beating heart of said friendship, with alcohol its very life blood and long nights around smoky tables its oxygen.
However, sometimes you just have to go with a story about poo.
Gregg, Gary and I had spent an enjoyable evening, first in the Penny Lane Wine Bar and then moving onto the little Tavern, on Allerton Road. I was drinking beer - non-alcoholic but at least it tastes like a Friday night should - and the banter was flying. Then, to our great pleasure, we were joined by Darren* and Ali, who had been to see Hard Fi in town. They'd already had a good few pints, and Darren saw off a good few more until the bar shut at midnight.
We were thinking about leaving when we noticed that Darren had been missing for quite some time. Gary then piped up that he may take a little longer yet, as he had just been using the urinal when he heard a lone voice from inside the cubicle: "Gaz, it's Darren. I've run out of bog roll."
It was a schoolboy error. He'd failed to do the basic three-point check which is mandatory before using any public lavatory: Seat, paper, lock. The Holy Trinity.
Gary imparted this information with a smirk on his face, and said he had told the barman of Darren's plight. Ali, looking understandably embarrassed at her husband's lack of toilet etiquette, demanded to know why Gary had not told her, so she could have retrieved some paper from the ladies. We could have hidden the shame within our group but Gary had blabbed to an outsider.
And a fairly thick outsider, by the sounds of it.
Darren eventually emerged after another five minutes or so, with a traumatic tale to tell.
He had sat patiently for a good while before the barman eventually waltzed into the toilet and announced: "Who is it that needs the toilet paper?"
"Take a wild guess," replied Darren, from inside the only cubicle in the whole room.
The barman then tried to ram an industrial sized roll of paper ("It wasn't even proper bog roll", Darren later wailed, "it was that blue stuff they use in hospitals to wipe up sick.") through the gap under the door, but it soon became obvious it wouldn't fit.
"It won't fit," said the barman. He was very quick on the uptake. "You'll have to open the door."
"I'm not really in a position to do that," replied an increasingly distressed Darren. "Can't you just roll some off and hand it to me?"
"Oh, come on," said the barman, who must have been on a customer service course to hone these sort of people skills, "I won't look."
So that's what happened. Darren opened the door. The barman didn't look. And I laughed so hard I nearly had to borrow some of that blue paper myself.
Sometimes it is worth staying sober to have a clear memory of these things. And, in Darren's case, sometimes it is better to blur the trauma with drink.
* Not his real name. His real name is Graham Devine.
23 DAYS AND 13 HOURS TIL I POP MY CORK!
I could have written on several serious themes today. Last night, for example, I attended the first of many Christmas drinks parties, courtesy of my old PA pal - and regular reader of this blog - Emma Gunby. I could have explored the socio-economic reasoning behind the office Christmas bash, the hidden dangers of drinking with colleagues, and the creeping sense of isolation felt by teetotallers around the festive period.
After a few drinks in town, I then met up with Gregg in the Penny Lane Wine Bar for our last ever Friday night out before he moves to Dubai. I could have described this momentous occasion and perhaps mused upon the role of alcohol in our long and fantastic friendship. I might even have described the Penny Lane Wine Bar as the beating heart of said friendship, with alcohol its very life blood and long nights around smoky tables its oxygen.
However, sometimes you just have to go with a story about poo.
Gregg, Gary and I had spent an enjoyable evening, first in the Penny Lane Wine Bar and then moving onto the little Tavern, on Allerton Road. I was drinking beer - non-alcoholic but at least it tastes like a Friday night should - and the banter was flying. Then, to our great pleasure, we were joined by Darren* and Ali, who had been to see Hard Fi in town. They'd already had a good few pints, and Darren saw off a good few more until the bar shut at midnight.
We were thinking about leaving when we noticed that Darren had been missing for quite some time. Gary then piped up that he may take a little longer yet, as he had just been using the urinal when he heard a lone voice from inside the cubicle: "Gaz, it's Darren. I've run out of bog roll."
It was a schoolboy error. He'd failed to do the basic three-point check which is mandatory before using any public lavatory: Seat, paper, lock. The Holy Trinity.
Gary imparted this information with a smirk on his face, and said he had told the barman of Darren's plight. Ali, looking understandably embarrassed at her husband's lack of toilet etiquette, demanded to know why Gary had not told her, so she could have retrieved some paper from the ladies. We could have hidden the shame within our group but Gary had blabbed to an outsider.
And a fairly thick outsider, by the sounds of it.
Darren eventually emerged after another five minutes or so, with a traumatic tale to tell.
He had sat patiently for a good while before the barman eventually waltzed into the toilet and announced: "Who is it that needs the toilet paper?"
"Take a wild guess," replied Darren, from inside the only cubicle in the whole room.
The barman then tried to ram an industrial sized roll of paper ("It wasn't even proper bog roll", Darren later wailed, "it was that blue stuff they use in hospitals to wipe up sick.") through the gap under the door, but it soon became obvious it wouldn't fit.
"It won't fit," said the barman. He was very quick on the uptake. "You'll have to open the door."
"I'm not really in a position to do that," replied an increasingly distressed Darren. "Can't you just roll some off and hand it to me?"
"Oh, come on," said the barman, who must have been on a customer service course to hone these sort of people skills, "I won't look."
So that's what happened. Darren opened the door. The barman didn't look. And I laughed so hard I nearly had to borrow some of that blue paper myself.
Sometimes it is worth staying sober to have a clear memory of these things. And, in Darren's case, sometimes it is better to blur the trauma with drink.
* Not his real name. His real name is Graham Devine.
Thursday, 6 December 2007
Thursday December 6 - Blast From The Past
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, five days and 21 hours since my last drink.
25 DAYS AND THREE HOURS TIL BLAST OFF!
These December days seem to be flying by - which is great if you're looking forward to drinking alcohol again on December 31 but not so great if you're launching a brand new all-speech radio station on January 28.
I did think that this final stretch of my booze-free journey could possibly send me a little bit loopy. Like the prisoner-of-war who, after months of planning the perfect escape, makes a suicidal dash when he gets to within 50 feet of the barbed wire perimeter fence. Or the nightclub lothario who bides his time all night and then lunges for the fat lass at five to two.
But so far, the opposite has been true. December has brought with it a zen-like calm. I feel so delighted to be within spitting distance of the finish post that I don't even care about having to stay sober.
My first real drinking pang - and it was only a minor one - came today. My old pal Gary Quinn was up in Liverpool, as he is joining City Talk in January. We used to work together at Mercury Press, which was my first proper job after leaving uni. If there was ever a golden period in my long and illustrious drinking career, it was around that time. Yes, I drank loads as a student - who doesn't? - but alcohol tastes so much sweeter when it follows a week of hard graft. Seeing GQ reminded me of long hazy nights in the Cross Keys or the Jacaranda. Not just weekends, mind you, but school nights as well. Drowning that day's traumatic events (and there were plenty of those at Mercury) and then rolling in for some more the following day with bleary eyes and Guinness breath. Ah, happy days.
Picking our way through the rain-soaked late-night Christmas shoppers, it would have felt just right to have dived into a city centre boozer with Gary to carry on where we left off in around 2003. But we didn't. Cos I don't drink and he had to go and check out some suitable accommodation for him and his pregnant wife then catch a
late train back to a grown-up job in London.
Toute ca change, Rodders. Toute ca change.
25 DAYS AND THREE HOURS TIL BLAST OFF!
These December days seem to be flying by - which is great if you're looking forward to drinking alcohol again on December 31 but not so great if you're launching a brand new all-speech radio station on January 28.
I did think that this final stretch of my booze-free journey could possibly send me a little bit loopy. Like the prisoner-of-war who, after months of planning the perfect escape, makes a suicidal dash when he gets to within 50 feet of the barbed wire perimeter fence. Or the nightclub lothario who bides his time all night and then lunges for the fat lass at five to two.
But so far, the opposite has been true. December has brought with it a zen-like calm. I feel so delighted to be within spitting distance of the finish post that I don't even care about having to stay sober.
My first real drinking pang - and it was only a minor one - came today. My old pal Gary Quinn was up in Liverpool, as he is joining City Talk in January. We used to work together at Mercury Press, which was my first proper job after leaving uni. If there was ever a golden period in my long and illustrious drinking career, it was around that time. Yes, I drank loads as a student - who doesn't? - but alcohol tastes so much sweeter when it follows a week of hard graft. Seeing GQ reminded me of long hazy nights in the Cross Keys or the Jacaranda. Not just weekends, mind you, but school nights as well. Drowning that day's traumatic events (and there were plenty of those at Mercury) and then rolling in for some more the following day with bleary eyes and Guinness breath. Ah, happy days.
Picking our way through the rain-soaked late-night Christmas shoppers, it would have felt just right to have dived into a city centre boozer with Gary to carry on where we left off in around 2003. But we didn't. Cos I don't drink and he had to go and check out some suitable accommodation for him and his pregnant wife then catch a
late train back to a grown-up job in London.
Toute ca change, Rodders. Toute ca change.
Wednesday, 5 December 2007
Wednesday December 5 - Namedropper
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, four days and 21 hours since my last drink.
26 DAYS AND THREE HOURS TO GO!
I don't like to drop names but I told Simon O'Brien (Damon Grant) about this blog today and he was quite literally struck dumb.
So long, losers. Looks like I've finally made it.
26 DAYS AND THREE HOURS TO GO!
I don't like to drop names but I told Simon O'Brien (Damon Grant) about this blog today and he was quite literally struck dumb.
So long, losers. Looks like I've finally made it.
Tuesday, 4 December 2007
Tuesday December 4 -
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, three days and 19 hours since my last drink.
27 DAYS AND FIVE HOURS TO GO.
The third question people always ask me when I tell them about this project (after Really? The whole year? and Why?) is Have you lost any weight?
I was planning to keep track of my weight in each blog entry, a la Bridget Jones. Then again, I was planning lots of things that never quite materialised.
Still, at least it means I can do the big reveal right now.
Pre-breakfast weight on January 1: 15 stones, two ounces.
Pre-breakfast weight on December 3: 13 stones, 9 ounces.
That's a loss of one and a half stone, with no exercise and no special diet. Not bad.
So there you have it. The secret to losing weight without going on a diet or exercising: simply give up fun for a year.
27 DAYS AND FIVE HOURS TO GO.
The third question people always ask me when I tell them about this project (after Really? The whole year? and Why?) is Have you lost any weight?
I was planning to keep track of my weight in each blog entry, a la Bridget Jones. Then again, I was planning lots of things that never quite materialised.
Still, at least it means I can do the big reveal right now.
Pre-breakfast weight on January 1: 15 stones, two ounces.
Pre-breakfast weight on December 3: 13 stones, 9 ounces.
That's a loss of one and a half stone, with no exercise and no special diet. Not bad.
So there you have it. The secret to losing weight without going on a diet or exercising: simply give up fun for a year.
Monday, 3 December 2007
Monday December 3 - Addict?
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, two days and 20 hours since my last drink.
28 DAYS, THREE HOURS AND 25 MINUTES LEFT...
I'm in surprisingly good spirits now, and feel almost certain that I'll finish the year without touching any booze.
I have proven that I can endure most social functions without resorting to alcohol, and I have surprised many - myself included - with my willpower.
However, the only reason I am happy this month is because the end is in sight. The thought of a lifetime without alcohol brigs me out in a cold sweat.
So, despite all I have proved, does that mean I'm still an addict?
28 DAYS, THREE HOURS AND 25 MINUTES LEFT...
I'm in surprisingly good spirits now, and feel almost certain that I'll finish the year without touching any booze.
I have proven that I can endure most social functions without resorting to alcohol, and I have surprised many - myself included - with my willpower.
However, the only reason I am happy this month is because the end is in sight. The thought of a lifetime without alcohol brigs me out in a cold sweat.
So, despite all I have proved, does that mean I'm still an addict?
Sunday, 2 December 2007
Sunday December 2 - The Taste of Victory
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months, one day and 20 hours since my last drink. 30 DAYS TIL B-DAY.
Thought for the day: What if I have to re-learn to love the taste of booze?
Remember what it was like when you were a kid, and you had to pretend to like the taste of beer? Yes, when you were eight or so, it was fine to screw up your face in disgust after sipping your dad's pint.
But by the time you hit double figures it was necessary to affect a certain nonchalance about alcohol. Perhaps even feign enjoyment and pass a knowledgeable comment, along the lines of "Mmmm, that's a good drop." This was difficult, because the sort of booze you have access to as a kid is not usually the best, nor is it usually served in the optimum conditions.
Skandia Green lager, for example, was unlikely to win any CAMRA awards even if it was served in a frosted goblet by a Swedish beauty queen. Necking it on the top deck of a number 37 bus, at body temperature after you stuck the can in your pocket to get it past the driver, was hardly going to improve the flavour.
But, hey, you swigged it down and - slowly - acquired the taste.
Spirits were even worse. The vapours hit the back of your throat before you'd even touched the stuff. Then came the acrid taste, the burning throat and the Mutley-style wheezing. So you learned your lesson and mixed it with Coke or orange juice until, after a few years, you start to wonder what this stuff tastes like without the masking agent. And you discover it's pretty damned good, particularly as you can now afford the good stuff.
I put a lot of work into acquiring my taste for alcohol, but what if I've lost this year?
I'm not sure I can go through it all again. I'm too old to learn.
I'll just have to inject the stuff.
Thought for the day: What if I have to re-learn to love the taste of booze?
Remember what it was like when you were a kid, and you had to pretend to like the taste of beer? Yes, when you were eight or so, it was fine to screw up your face in disgust after sipping your dad's pint.
But by the time you hit double figures it was necessary to affect a certain nonchalance about alcohol. Perhaps even feign enjoyment and pass a knowledgeable comment, along the lines of "Mmmm, that's a good drop." This was difficult, because the sort of booze you have access to as a kid is not usually the best, nor is it usually served in the optimum conditions.
Skandia Green lager, for example, was unlikely to win any CAMRA awards even if it was served in a frosted goblet by a Swedish beauty queen. Necking it on the top deck of a number 37 bus, at body temperature after you stuck the can in your pocket to get it past the driver, was hardly going to improve the flavour.
But, hey, you swigged it down and - slowly - acquired the taste.
Spirits were even worse. The vapours hit the back of your throat before you'd even touched the stuff. Then came the acrid taste, the burning throat and the Mutley-style wheezing. So you learned your lesson and mixed it with Coke or orange juice until, after a few years, you start to wonder what this stuff tastes like without the masking agent. And you discover it's pretty damned good, particularly as you can now afford the good stuff.
I put a lot of work into acquiring my taste for alcohol, but what if I've lost this year?
I'm not sure I can go through it all again. I'm too old to learn.
I'll just have to inject the stuff.
Saturday, 1 December 2007
Saturday December 1 - The Finish Line In Sight (but I'll have to walk to it).
My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 11 months and ten hours since my last drink. ONLY 31 DAYS TIL B-DAY.
I had a rude awakening this morning, and not in a good way.
One of the original plans for this booze-free year was to get fit. I've never been a Sport Billy, but even in my drinking days (ie, any time after the age of 15) I would do just enough to keep the wolf of morbid obesity from my door.
After a heavy Friday night, I would regularly haul myself out of bed on Saturday mornings and jog around Sefton Park, sometimes even finishing with a Guinness fart-fuelled sprint.
Other times I would leave trails of purest Sambuca sweat on a Picton squash court, or pound the cross-trainer at LA Fitness until I had burned off the calorific equivalent of ten pints of Kronenburg and a Saffron special. Occasionally I might cycle along the Mersey until my deathly grey hangover pallor was replaced by a ruddy-cheeked nausea.
This year, I've done diddly squat. That's not a special type of squat thrust. I just mean I've done nothing. Nada. Zilch. Nowt.
I could give excuses as to why that might be - the change of jobs, increasing work load, golf (which is not proper exercise in any way).
But the real reason, if I'm being honest, is that my non-drinking has armoured me with a sense of smug self-righteousness.
Why should I exercise when I am already sacrificing so much?
Why bother exercising when all I drank last night was orange juice and soda?
Exercise is for the weak and sinful. I am pure of soul, so I must be pure of body!
So when I awoke to a crisp winter morning today I decided to pull on my trainers and Ron Hills (calm yourself, ladies)and jog around Sefton Park. Not for the exercise, you understand, but for the pure joy of it. Breathing the cold air deep into my lungs, hearing the rhythm of rubber sole on pavement, splattering the dog-walkers and asthmatic fun-runners with mulchy puddle spray as I raced joyously past them.
Yeah, that didn't happen.
Instead I was in agony after about ten minutes. My thighs burned, my chest pounded and I was desperately trying to clear my airways of the type of gooey spit I haven't experienced since I was a tubby schoolboy. The stuff is like ektoplasm - you try to spit it out and it stays attached to your tongue via a two-foot trail, swinging round and hitting the back of your head.
After fifteen minutes I had to stop and walk for a bit, casting my eyes to the ground in shame whenever a sprightly jogger ran past in the opposite direction. Suddenly, my bright yellow Asics running trainers and Ron Hills were a source of shame. At least most unfit people have the decency to waddle around the park in pair of Converse baseball boots and combat shorts. There was me with all the gear and no idea.
I got round, door to door, in 39 minutes and 47 seconds. I used to do it in under 30 minutes in my boozy days. Ouch. A valuable lesson has been learned. Sobriety, for all its virtues, does not keep you fit.
Anyway, the good news is that it's now December. The booziest month of the calendar, for sure, but also the last one. In less than 31 days, I will have completed my mission, and that's a great feeling.
To celebrate the end being in sight, I plan to update this blog daily until the end of December with a morsel of wisdom or question about boozing/sobriety. Think of it like an Advent calendar, but without the chocolate or the picture of baby Jesus in the manger.
Today's offering is this. How close a friend do you have to be before you help a drunk girl on a work night out? I only ask because I went to the Radio City Local Heroes awards on Thursday night, and onto the after-show party at Mosquito. Then to the after-after-show party in a Chinese karaoke bar beneath the Shangri La restaurant. (Well, it's nice to do your bit for charity.)
I knew one of the girls in our party by face but not by name. At 3.30am, I discovered her name was Jenny. As in "Oh look, Jenny's got her head on the table and she's puked on the floor." Thankfully, at that point, she was being attended to by two other girls, so I left them to it. I did feel a tad sorry for the two blokes on the same table who were trying to enjoy their meal but, hey, if you can't stand the puke, get out of the late-night karaoke bar.
Anyway, all was fine until about five minutes later when Jenny, who was now alone at the table (apart from the two aforementioned gents and their largely untouched spring rolls) decided to stand up. She lurched towards me with the unmistakeable face of a girl about to chunder once more. I was wearing a rather fine shirt and my favourite jacket, not to mention newly-purchased shoes of the softest brown leather.
Reader, it shames me to admit that instead of catching the lurching female, I stood aside. Alas, she turned on her heel and seemed to lurch at me again. Once more I sidestepped the danger. For a third time, her face now ashen (and for this I must take a share of the blame - it was not the right time to be making her dizzy), she came at me. This time, with all the skill of a matador, I stood in front of a chair and dived at the last second, allowing her to fall back into a sitting position. Thankfully, the cavalry teetered back on their heels and I was able to escape the immediate danger area.
But afterwards I was touched by guilt. As a sober and responsible adult, should I have done more to help? Should I have held her in my arms at the first lunge, and risked a torrent of sick down my back? Should I have insisted she be put into a Hackney cab and handed the driver a crisp £20 note from my own wallet? Or, as little more than a nodding aquaintance, was I right to absolve myself of responsibility as quickly as possible?
Discuss.
I had a rude awakening this morning, and not in a good way.
One of the original plans for this booze-free year was to get fit. I've never been a Sport Billy, but even in my drinking days (ie, any time after the age of 15) I would do just enough to keep the wolf of morbid obesity from my door.
After a heavy Friday night, I would regularly haul myself out of bed on Saturday mornings and jog around Sefton Park, sometimes even finishing with a Guinness fart-fuelled sprint.
Other times I would leave trails of purest Sambuca sweat on a Picton squash court, or pound the cross-trainer at LA Fitness until I had burned off the calorific equivalent of ten pints of Kronenburg and a Saffron special. Occasionally I might cycle along the Mersey until my deathly grey hangover pallor was replaced by a ruddy-cheeked nausea.
This year, I've done diddly squat. That's not a special type of squat thrust. I just mean I've done nothing. Nada. Zilch. Nowt.
I could give excuses as to why that might be - the change of jobs, increasing work load, golf (which is not proper exercise in any way).
But the real reason, if I'm being honest, is that my non-drinking has armoured me with a sense of smug self-righteousness.
Why should I exercise when I am already sacrificing so much?
Why bother exercising when all I drank last night was orange juice and soda?
Exercise is for the weak and sinful. I am pure of soul, so I must be pure of body!
So when I awoke to a crisp winter morning today I decided to pull on my trainers and Ron Hills (calm yourself, ladies)and jog around Sefton Park. Not for the exercise, you understand, but for the pure joy of it. Breathing the cold air deep into my lungs, hearing the rhythm of rubber sole on pavement, splattering the dog-walkers and asthmatic fun-runners with mulchy puddle spray as I raced joyously past them.
Yeah, that didn't happen.
Instead I was in agony after about ten minutes. My thighs burned, my chest pounded and I was desperately trying to clear my airways of the type of gooey spit I haven't experienced since I was a tubby schoolboy. The stuff is like ektoplasm - you try to spit it out and it stays attached to your tongue via a two-foot trail, swinging round and hitting the back of your head.
After fifteen minutes I had to stop and walk for a bit, casting my eyes to the ground in shame whenever a sprightly jogger ran past in the opposite direction. Suddenly, my bright yellow Asics running trainers and Ron Hills were a source of shame. At least most unfit people have the decency to waddle around the park in pair of Converse baseball boots and combat shorts. There was me with all the gear and no idea.
I got round, door to door, in 39 minutes and 47 seconds. I used to do it in under 30 minutes in my boozy days. Ouch. A valuable lesson has been learned. Sobriety, for all its virtues, does not keep you fit.
Anyway, the good news is that it's now December. The booziest month of the calendar, for sure, but also the last one. In less than 31 days, I will have completed my mission, and that's a great feeling.
To celebrate the end being in sight, I plan to update this blog daily until the end of December with a morsel of wisdom or question about boozing/sobriety. Think of it like an Advent calendar, but without the chocolate or the picture of baby Jesus in the manger.
Today's offering is this. How close a friend do you have to be before you help a drunk girl on a work night out? I only ask because I went to the Radio City Local Heroes awards on Thursday night, and onto the after-show party at Mosquito. Then to the after-after-show party in a Chinese karaoke bar beneath the Shangri La restaurant. (Well, it's nice to do your bit for charity.)
I knew one of the girls in our party by face but not by name. At 3.30am, I discovered her name was Jenny. As in "Oh look, Jenny's got her head on the table and she's puked on the floor." Thankfully, at that point, she was being attended to by two other girls, so I left them to it. I did feel a tad sorry for the two blokes on the same table who were trying to enjoy their meal but, hey, if you can't stand the puke, get out of the late-night karaoke bar.
Anyway, all was fine until about five minutes later when Jenny, who was now alone at the table (apart from the two aforementioned gents and their largely untouched spring rolls) decided to stand up. She lurched towards me with the unmistakeable face of a girl about to chunder once more. I was wearing a rather fine shirt and my favourite jacket, not to mention newly-purchased shoes of the softest brown leather.
Reader, it shames me to admit that instead of catching the lurching female, I stood aside. Alas, she turned on her heel and seemed to lurch at me again. Once more I sidestepped the danger. For a third time, her face now ashen (and for this I must take a share of the blame - it was not the right time to be making her dizzy), she came at me. This time, with all the skill of a matador, I stood in front of a chair and dived at the last second, allowing her to fall back into a sitting position. Thankfully, the cavalry teetered back on their heels and I was able to escape the immediate danger area.
But afterwards I was touched by guilt. As a sober and responsible adult, should I have done more to help? Should I have held her in my arms at the first lunge, and risked a torrent of sick down my back? Should I have insisted she be put into a Hackney cab and handed the driver a crisp £20 note from my own wallet? Or, as little more than a nodding aquaintance, was I right to absolve myself of responsibility as quickly as possible?
Discuss.
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