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.