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.