Dickhead

I’m
terrified that I’m a dickhead. That I’m hurtling towards absolute confirmation
that I’m beyond a simple bit of a nob. I’m
feeling anxious, because I’ve made a
declaration to those closest to me, and now you, Internet, that will possibly remove
all doubt as to where, exactly, I place on the international scale of all right to Kayne West.

I’ve
given up drinking. Like, forever.

I
KNOW. I just… I know. I know how it sounds. First I kicked
the fags, then I dabbled
in celibacy, and then I went to Atheist
Church. Is it any coincidence, I ask myself, that now I’m looking to ditch
the booze? I know not the answer.

(probably
not.) 

But,
what I do know is that last Friday I had a bloody brilliant day- the kind of
day where you spend half the time having the
brilliant day, and the rest of it running an internal monologue that goes, Phwoar. This is a bit brill. It’s dead good.
I like this. I feel proper happy. Yeah, belter. FUCK YES! I LOVE BEING ALIVE!
!!!!!!!! !!!!!!! !!!!!! !!!!!!

I
felt so good that I figured yeah- I’ll have a glass of wine to celebrate life,
on the balcony, stolen cigarette in hand and sunshine on my satisfied face. And
then I felt even better, so I drank more wine. And then I sort of polished off the bottle, because I don’t have an off button, and instead of continuing my
brilliant day into the evening and squeezing every single last drop of amazing
out of every last second because more is always better, I had to go to bed
because I was drunk. At 9 p.m. At home.

A few
weekends previously, I’d had a two-day hangover that was so crippling I slept
away most of the weekend. I hadn’t gone at it large the night before. I’d been
at my mate’s house, just chatting and supping. But that cheap red stuff we
necked- it killed me. I was immobile, and not even in the good way. I just felt
a bit sad and lonely and like I’d screwed up. Again.

Since
I’ve come to London I drink most nights of the week. I’m out for most of them,
and so when I meet a friend for a catch-up after work, it’s normally in a bar.
So I have a drink. And then maybe another one. And another? Every night.

At
the end of March I decided I’d not only do Sober April, but I’d drink one thing
and one thing only: water. My body was asking me to. I was committing the
ultimate sin; I was treating my body without any semblance of respect. I was
poisoning her every night, and compensating with coffee and carbs by day,
wondering why the feelings of sluggish malcontent seemed to be increasingly difficult
to conquer.

April
arrived, and I was to be sober throughout.

On
April the third I went to the pub.

‘What
you having?’ the barmaid asked me.

‘Aperol
Spritz,’ I said.

She
set the drink down in front of me. Oh, I
thought to myself. I forgot that that
wasn’t water.

I
lasted a few more days until my friend had a dinner when there was Prosecco. Because
I allowed myself one glass I had another. The food came out, and it tasted so
much better with the red wine, and then there was dessert wine, and then
everything was so.much.fun and then a
bit blurry and then the night bus home and zzzzz.
Failure.

I
couldn’t not drink when I
went to all-you-can-eat brunch, and then I had all of those strangers
to my apartment for dinner and was what I supposed to do? Offer them juice?

By
mid-April I’d accepted the defeat that alcohol was, in fact, my very best friend,
and so book club and goodbye drinks at work saw me drink a little bit, and then
a lot, and then I got that hangover and the post drink blues. I HATE THE POST
DRINK BLUES. When it’s daytime and I’m sober and life is brilliant the
monologue of my imagination is exclamation point after exclamation point. When I’m
hungover my monologue is: hold me. I’m
scared.

OBVIOUSLY,
then, because hi, we’ve met, and my default setting is deep meta analysis humps Boy
Meets World, I’ve done thinking about whether this perpetual pattern of bad
behaviour and repentance is worth the effort it takes to feel miserable about
it, and I’ve decided that no. No it isn’t. I fucking adore drinking, but hate
hangovers. And so? I’ll stop drinking.

Except,
that seems really dull, and I’m worried what everyone will think. Because
people who don’t drink are self-righteous dickheads, right?

Wrong.
I’ll still totally flash my tits at you.  

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