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Another common subject to look at, this month. Drinking alcohol is pastime for many of us, and here we look at what the British in particular consider to be a great ‘social lubricant’ that has bubbled, sloshed and gurgled through our society for hundreds, indeed thousands, of years.

I’m going to add an author’s note, right at the beginning. I’ve already pointed out the personal relationship and history I have with Moving House, and Running. I have an even closer one, with booze, and it’s going to give us something to giggle at here and there over the coming pages. However, I will also be describing some events where, after a long career, I realised that drinking was a hobby I had to give up. That, in turn, will lead to an exposition of some thoughts that I had around the time, and have had since I went dry. Please don’t think I am moralising, hectoring, or suggesting that I Am Right, in any way at all. The tone of this piece is designed to be received as it was in the last two pieces. Pick a common subject, discuss it a bit, and tell some stories from the perspective of one’s own life. Laugh, cry, or close the window and wait for next month – that’s your pleasure.

So, as I opened the page to start writing this, I checked. It’s been 1,176 days since I last bought, and drank, an alcoholic drink. Broadly speaking, that’s my definition of ‘me drinking’, but we will come to that, later, perhaps.

I changed my policy on drinking on the 17^th February 2018. I came to, after about six hours’ sleep, in a hotel room in Muscat, Oman. My wife and I had gone there on a short holiday to celebrate her 40^th birthday.  I was ragingly thirsty, was pounded by the realisation my life had to change, as I looked around the room, and saw my exhausted and despairing wife looking at me. It wasn’t long before I burst into tears, apologising for what I had just done. This was the sort of apology she had sat through on a number of occasions in the previous two and a half years. I look back on it now, with a level of shame that is, gradually, diminishing, and I realise that my tears were for myself, as well as for her. I was realising for the first time that, at the tender age of almost 44, I was going to have to remove something from my life that had been a fundamental, constant presence for the previous 25 years and more. I was also crying in sheer relief, for the path was at last clear for me to release myself from something that had me as its prisoner. In terms of the common experience of those that develop problems with drink, I had hit what often gets referred to as ‘rock bottom’. The point had arrived where either one bounced back, gradually repaired some damage, and tried to live life on different terms – or one remained on the bed of the ocean, there, all too soon, to drown.

I can only write this now, because I have embarked on doing the former, and can, I think, live in the certain knowledge that I will do so for the rest of my life. In considering that, it has just occurred to me that one of the only reasons why this was possible was that I shortly had to return to Qatar, where I was going to live for the next seven months. I had to pop to the United States, yes, but I figured that as that was for work, I would cope with that, and could then move forward. Drinking was possible in Qatar, but expensive, and not exactly a simple affair, requiring either going to special bars, where one’s ID went on record, or getting a permission slip from work to be able to go and buy booze from the one shop in the country that sold it. The odds of doing either without any misadventure being noted, and action taken, did not look good. And it’s not a country where you want to come to the attention of the authorities. However, drinkers always have strategies to allow drinking to happen, and it was good to think through how one might be ‘disenabled’, as it were, from taking up another drink.

In Oman, I had been very lucky. As these things go, it’s a pretty tolerant place when it comes to things like Westerners getting drunk. During the course of events, locals had simply assured themselves that I was going to be okay, tried to help me a bit, in my incoherence, and sent me on my way. So far as I can remember, at least.

What was my crime, you will want to know? I will tell you. The previous evening, we had gone out for dinner and drinks with an old friend from College, whom I had not seen for more than 20 years. After a quite boozy dinner we had gone to a club, next to our hotel. I drank beer, and became drunkenly enthusiastic. With the exception of the night before, where SWK and I had had a couple of drinks, I had not embarked on any ‘proper’ drinking for quite a while, because of where I had been living. Therefore both body and mind were totally unprepared for this bout of binge drinking. I am told that ‘shots’ arrived, which took things away from me all the more. Evidently, at some stage during the later evening, I went missing. Piecing it together, it seems I got in a taxi, imagining to myself that I had somewhere to get to, and for reasons I shall never know, nor want to know – on my own. It gets much worse (but don’t worry, we’ll lighten things up in a bit), when I tell you that I emerged from a blackout that lasted several hours, walking down a highway out of the City of Muscat. I have no memory whatsoever of what had happened between accepting a beer in the club, and arriving on staggering feet on that highway. And that’s really, really bad.

This had happened to me once before, in London, a couple of years earlier. I’d been to a lunch, near the river, and then to a pub with friends. The rot was just setting in, back then, but I thought I was having fun. Fact remains, though, that I re-entered conscious life three hours later, walking through St. Pancras station. Clueless as to what had happened to me. I had lost time.

When you wake up with a hangover as a student, not remembering having gone to bed, it’s a kind of rite of passage – or at least it was 25 or so years ago – my sense is that such things are not quite as popular as they were when I was 18-20 or so. A lot of younger people now don’t drink, for a range of reasons. One of them is no doubt their experience of seeing people in the generations above get themselves into just the sort of state as I had got myself into. When you are in your early forties, with some responsibilities, and a wife you have pledged your love and allegiance to.. well, it’s just not funny anymore, and consequences are so damaging as to affect the whole of the rest of your life.

Another stroke of luck came in the form of a new friend my wife made that might – a local man, a non-drinker, who came to her aid in dealing with the situation, my frantic family back home, and the potential for the police taking action when I was finally found. Fortunately for them, but mostly fortunately for me, I had emerged from the disastrous fog of that night within striking distance of a petrol station, where two lads were out driving during the night. I threw myself upon their mercy – they drove me back to the hotel and gave me some crisps along the way (quite nice crisps – thanks boys). I got to the hotel – I apologised (obviously still drunk, but able to think and talk clearly again, despite that) to everyone, including our new friend. The search was called off and we went to bed. He proved a friendly companion for the rest of our trip, and he provided to me the first example, immediately after that terrible event, of someone near to my age who was quite happily enjoying life without alcohol. It was something that I needed to see, and a state of peace to which I immediately aspired, and indeed was desperate to achieve.

And as I am typing this, more than three years later, I realise how important that state of calm and peace is to me. It didn’t enter my head to drink yesterday – it won’t today and it won’t tomorrow. I have not seriously considered the value of taking on a proper drink in at least two years. And it’s not just the inherent risk of doing so (or being caught doing so by those that love me and ought to be able to rely on me) – maybe not an incident the first time I did it – maybe not the second, but ultimately there would be something utterly catastrophic waiting in the wings. No, it’s just because I no longer want to. At all. I have a clear head, I feel (mostly) well, mentally and physically, and most of the unwanted chaos of my life has melted away- although by its nature, nothing is perfect. And everything – everything, is still fun. Things that are fall-down funny are still fall-down funny. The company of other people is still enjoyable (if a bit limited at the moment), and I have no problem at all watching other people drink. The tiniest caveat to that is that on the rare occasion I am in the company of a suite of other people who are really going for it, I will probably go home a bit earlier than once would have been the case. But that’s okay – none of us are missing out, and we are all getting what we want out of life.

Like lots of us, on entering adult life, I have keenly associated fun, celebrations, sex, holidays and all sorts of other things with drink and drinking. It’s just how life brings most of us up, isn’t it? And to a certain degree, that’s fine. It’s alright to overdo it now and again, and to enjoy light-hearted misadventure, as we are often wont to do. It’s alright to be, on balance, a heavier drinker, provided you do some things to counteract the worst effects of that.

The real problem comes when our relationship with drink becomes passive. When our capacity to control ourselves in the face of drink, and to remain clear about the bigger picture, goes away. Many people characterise this as the ‘off switch’, and I do too, when it comes to me. At some point, during 2016, that off switch that, in truth, was always something I had a mixed mastery of, became inaccessible to me. That set me on the inexorable path to that night in Oman. I would probably press the argument that being forced out of my job (voluntarily in the end) in the previous year was a contributing factor to that change. The prevailing biology and psychology is all mine, of course, but there was also a trigger, in the form of at times almost intolerable responsibility and stress. When one goes from a good, big job, to not knowing what to do with oneself, then any problems with one’s lifestyle likely find their way closer to the surface.

Over a period of 18 months or, so I became progressively unreliable when drink entered the day. I behaved with, at times, quite crashing irresponsibility, about which I now shudder with embarrassment and shame. And towards the end of that time, when the modesty of the Middle Eastern life came in to at least start to save me from this, I remember quite clearly sitting, drunk, on my own, crying about how much I hated drinking. Lifting the glass, drinking the contents, and hating what I was doing. Not hating myself, but hating it. Do we do other things in life where we actively hate what we are doing? I’m not sure. But boozing had come to be a hateful chore. Which was ridiculous.

I’m not stupid – and I wasn’t then, either. I could see this for what it was, when in a clear frame of mind. I did try to solve it. I did go dry for as much as a month, a couple of times, through sheer force of willpower, but in the end I cracked because I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing out, and that my choices had been reduced. My life, according the drunk bit of me, was being ‘limited’, and that was not fair, somehow. Not fun enough, somehow? Actually, of course, my life and the choices I had was being limited by the drive to pick up a drink. Other things to enjoy were vanishing in their number, and barely visible on the horizon. No wonder I was so miserable – particularly when I cast that existence against the one I have now. To give you a live example? So far today, I have got up at 8.00am on a Saturday, made a nice breakfast for me and SWK, dealt with the laundry, started making a fragrant candle (yes, I know, I have a new lockdown hobby – yes, it’s all a bit hippie-fied, and no, I don’t care), put together a curry sauce for my tea later, played with the dog, planned a run for this afternoon and read some of my book. I am typing this, and watching some snooker. I am having a productive day off and I am happy. If I had spent last night getting shitfaced – well, I might be awake, but I would be constricted into a tiny sad ball of pity and hate. The hell with that.

Perhaps I can deal with a few side issues and common things around boozing, then? Give some wider application to my own experience.

People will tell you that, even though they plainly drink enough to float a barge, it’s okay because they don’t get up and begin the day with a drink. A tourniquet around the arm to steady it from shaking, and a big slug of vodka – that kind of thing? Desperation stakes. The sort of boozy mess that ‘other people’ find themselves in? I was pretty sympathetic to that point of view for a while. But now, of course, I realise it’s complete hokum. Whether or not you commence drinking at 6.00am or 6.00pm, it’s pretty much immaterial if you can’t then stop again. If you start in the morning, then you won’t be able to engage in the day – well, not properly – I’m not sure I care for the notion of functional alcoholism – it always sounds like bullshit heroism, to me. Sympathise with the poor folks who have a life like that – of course I do, but if that’s you, then you need help stopping that. Conversely, if you start drinking at night, and don’t stop, you’re going to go to bed or just plain pass out, pissed. You will sleep pissed and wake up pissed. You’ll travel to work pissed. You’ll attend meetings pissed – teach pissed – operate on people pissed. By no objective standard is this a good thing. However – if you can get to 6.00pm, make your dinner and drink a glass or two of wine, then a glass or two of water and go to bed? Well, good for you. Why not? Sounds good to me, and if I thought I could do that (my wife does that) then that’s what I would do. But hey ho. I can’t and I don’t – crucially I no longer envy anyone who can.

The negative voice when it comes to addressing our drinking also says that without alcohol, fun stuff will not be fun anymore. Do the people that follow this particular credo have no memory of things perhaps being fun and funny before they reached the age when drink became available to them? Have they absolutely no recall of killing themselves laughing at something as a kid? There will be such people, I guess, and again one feels very sad for them. Some of them may have become alcoholic, which is even worse. But, if you are a person who is no longer in a comfortable place with drinking, then this is a bit of perceived wisdom you might seek to challenge. You are still you, if you don’t have any alcohol in your body. Your capacities are undimmed. You have the same amount of charisma and joie de vivre you had when you had a good night out that time and drank six pints. Don’t doubt yourself, in your natural state. If adding booze to your natural state doesn’t lead you to my sort of ‘Muscat Moment’, then crack on as you will. But, to my mind, one should never consider that adding alcohol means you are improving yourself. You aren’t. Even on a cloudy day, the skies that lie behind the clouds are still blue – they are just, for the moment, invisible to you. But they are there. In much the same way, our existence in its raw state can always be enjoyable. Well – I reckon that’s the case.

In talking to people about drinking, and reading about drinking, one hears a lot about the capacity of a community to help people with being abstinent. Evidently, in lot of cases, it does do that. AA. 12 Steps. All that stuff. For many recovering drunks, it’s a centrepiece to their life and very much to be applauded for that. If it did not exist, you would have to invent it, as people need a community to help themselves with their problems – whatever their problems might be.

I went a few times and it wasn’t for me – but once again, that’s just me. I have been wondering why it didn’t work for me, though. I think I have worked it out, and I’m happy to say that it’s not because of that common criticism: “it’s all a bit Goddy”. That’s crap, and it’s a critique borne of the part of the mind that just doesn’t want to give up drinking (yet). It has a structure. It has commonly repeated words and phrases that are designed to help, motivate and inspire to a belief that alcohol addiction can be overcome. But it doesn’t take much to divorce that from the existence of God, and it’s not set up to make you seek out a relationship with God. I’m an Agnostic. I was an Agnostic before I became a problem drinker – I was an Agnostic when I attended AA meetings. I was still an Agnostic when I gave up drinking – and I am currently writing this from a standpoint of Agnosticism. Nothing has changed.

Get a sponsor – make the 12 Steps your life’s work if you need to. That’s all fine. If it works, then it works.

But I didn’t like it because of the concept of people sharing without a right of reply. I like a group conversation. I like to challenge and be challenged. I believe in the power of collective reasoning and collective progress. I like to listen, but I like to respond, and be responded to. My experience showed I don’t like just hearing monologues. Logic, though, tells me that sharing is about fairness. Everyone can say what they want, if they want to. To invite debate is to invite hostility, and negativity, and that can negate progress gained. Interesting. I don’t go to AA meetings, because I rely on discussion. And this is my Blog and this is my experience.

What I don’t do, is drink anymore. And the reason I am able not to is all to do with the passage of time. At various points during my first year off the sauce, I might well have cracked. I had a lot of internal struggle and debate. I had a lot of desire to press the ‘fuck it’ button because I just wanted to. But I didn’t. Because I always asked myself what tomorrow was going to feel like, if I had one drink, that turned into ten, and I found myself in bits in front of those I love more than anything. How indescribably awful would that be? It would be awful, and it would be indescribable. I also told myself that I should just “give it one more day”. If I wanted to drink tomorrow, I would have the discussion again then. But I wasn’t going to act on the urge on that particular day. The more time one gives oneself, the more time passes and the more a newly ordered life beds in.

I think it’s also alright to feel like shit about it all. Not to wallow in it, but if you try to change a massive part of your life, then doing so is going to be frustrating. Some days are going to be crap, and on some occasions, despite all of the progress made, people are going to fail. But if they do (and I certainly did, before the ‘click’ moment – loads of times) then the next thing to do is to build up a sense of pride about not drinking the next day. Get up. Glass of water. Cup of coffee. Go for a walk. Answer an e-mail or two. Make progress, forgive self and enjoy what you achieve next. If you make a bad meal, you don’t respond the next day by just giving up eating, do you?

Forgiving yourself is hard and, in truth, it’s the bit I still struggle with. Most of the time I can content myself with being the best bloke I can be. Accepting, friendly, humorous and enquiring. I love my wife – I love my friends – I love my family and I love my dogs. I love my life. But every so often I fall into a terrible funk about how, eventually, drinking became a burden rather than a laugh, and I was an appalling version of myself. I can apologise for it, but I cannot stop it being an article of historical fact. I was a twat that time. I did embarrass myself, or you, or us, that time. It all happened, and that is regrettable. BUT all I can do now is focus on what is happening today and will happen tomorrow and the next day. If I make mistakes in the future, I will correct them and I will apologise if I hurt anyone. Chances are, being sober, I will make fewer screw ups and I will be a better friend, husband, son, brother and slave to the canines. Which is nice.

Now, this has been confessional, and less overtly gag-a-minute than some of my other stuff, but I have been wanting to write it for a while and now it’s out of my system I will no doubt offer up lighter essays and reminiscences. Indeed, I promise to do so. As I said at the beginning, I come not to judge you or anyone else, and hope I have not come across as doing so. I didn’t start drinking as a teenager with the intention of becoming a drunk. That I did was unfortunate, but it has proved something that has, so far, been reversible, for which I am thankful on a daily basis. All I would ever do is offer the advice for people to look after themselves. To pause for a moment, now and again to check their motivation in making the choices they make. Chances are that you are doing things is good rather than bad faith. But if you aren’t, you can change that. Or someone might be able to show you how to.

For balance, five fun and amusing things about my drinking life:

1. I took up booze-making not long after I met SWK, and, after a bit of a pause, I am back doing it again. Sure, I’ll taste test things; just half a mouthful  with a bit of water, but it’s something I am doing for the pleasure of others. It’s a creative outlet I am working on getting better at. Just like this is. My apple tree is covered in blossom, and this Autumn you’ll find me making cider, but drinking a mug of tea. And that makes me every happy.

• I still like the taste of beer. Rather than being a problem, these days that represents an opportunity. The range and the quality of no-alcohol or 0.5% alcohol beer out there is huge, and a lot of it is delicious, refreshing, and cause for celebration without recrimination.

• I still have a load of stories from the days when I finished up sloshed and did no harm. And they still make me laugh, because I always have had and always will have a sense of humour. I am not one of life’s po-faced people and I am not going to become one. I have recounted some of those stories here, and haven’t finished yet. Life is fun.

• Two of my very best friends in the whole world don’t drink. I love them like Brothers. They are funny, loving people who I have shared some singularly wonderful times wit, and will again, soon.

• If I knew I had ten minutes to live, I would probably share a glass of wine with my wife. It would be a glass of Chateau Musar red wine, made in Lebanon, which remains the greatest alcoholic drink I have ever tasted. Under those very unlikely circumstances, I don’t see the harm, and it might take the edge off dying. If you drink, and you like red wine, make sure you have some, one day, before you die. Trust me on this. One glass, can’t hurt.