Guys, I’m on
Day 18 of not drinking. And I’m not gonna lie, this whole no drinking thing is no
walk in the park.
Alcohol and
I have never really got along, as anyone who has been to a BBC “Doctors” wrap
party with me will know. Our first altercation occurred back in 1995, when I
discovered just how lethal Archer’s Peach Schnapps could really be. Similar
arguments followed: In 1998 Matt James’ sister taught me how to stick my
fingers down my throat to make myself vomit, after I had downed a pint (yes –
from an actual pint glass) of Merlot somewhere in the deepest darkest depths of
Solihull. In 1999, whilst on our post-A Levels holiday to Tenerife, I spent our
first night throwing up Red Square vodka into the chalet fridge vegetable bin –
and never even made it down to The Strip.
And then of
course came my pièce de résistance – being stretchered into an ambulance at
exactly the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve 1999. That’s right – I started
the new millennium, decade and my 19th birthday (New Year’s Day –
yes, you missed it but I am still accepting presents) being given oxygen in a
hospital bed before suffering the ignominious exit of being delivered to my parents’
car in a wheelchair. I know it was exactly midnight because Douglas Heard captured
an image of me on the stretcher on his Nokia 3310, with “0:00” emblazoned helpfully across the photograph.
You might
suspect that it would be at this stage that I would just give up. Accept that
alcohol and I were doomed not to be friends and retire to a life of soft
drinks, peppermint tea, and the occasional Big Night Out with a Baileys Coffee.
But no! Little Sair is no quitter! I persisted with Jager Bombs, Dirty
Martinis, Caipirinhas, Petron, Harden The Fuck Up (yes really – it was a shot
at a bar in Darwin)… all in an attempt find
a drink that would suit me and hence why we are in the predicament we find
ourselves today.
Because,
while alcohol in excess has never suited me, I persevered with the very English-Middle-Class-Waitrose-Shopper
habit of having a civilized wine in the evening and somehow found that, in my 39th
year, this habit has become one that that is very hard to break.
This is
slightly niche, but did you ever see that episode of “Frasier” where Bebe
explains why it’s so hard for her to quit smoking? In case you’ve forgotten – I’ll
refresh your memory:
Frasier: Oh
now, Bebe, tell me. What is so wonderful
about smoking?
Bebe:
Everything. I like the way a fresh firm pack
feels in my hand. I like peeling away that little piece of
cellophane and seeing it twinkle in
the light. I like coaxing
that first sweet cylinder out of its
hiding place and bringing
it slowly up to my lips. Striking a
match, watching it burst into
a perfect little flame and knowing
that soon that flame will
be inside me. I love the first puff,
pulling
it into my lungs. Little fingers of smoking filling me,
caressing me, feeling that warmth
penetrate deeper and deeper,
until I think I'm going to burst! Then - whoosh! - watching
it flow out of me in a lovely, sinuous
cloud, no two ever
quite the same.
Now take all
of the emotions that Bebe feels towards cigarettes and imagine them with wine. I
don’t want to sound like some kind of midget Brummy alco, but let’s face it: there’s
nothing quite like pouring yourself a massive glass of Pinot at the end of a crummy
day to make the world seem… a little more gentle than it did a few hours ago.
But anyway,
I decided on the first of January (my birthday, do keep up) that I had had enough
of (a) feeling that little bit extra tired in the morning (b) spending money that I
don’t have on alcohol and (c) feeling depressed after drinking. Because, let’s
face it, alcohol is a depressant, and it’s probably something my mental health
could do without.
So yeah, Day
18. I can now tell you exactly which celebrities don’t drink (Kim Kardashian,
Bradley Cooper, Jennifer Lopez, Matthew Perry and, allegedly, Donald Trump?!! Which
means he is making all of those decisions completely sober. Which is, in
itself, a sobering thought). I have replaced alcohol with popcorn so any dreams
I might have had of losing weight because I am no longer consuming so-called “empty
calories” have been completely quashed by the reality of consuming my own
body-weight in sweet ‘n’ salted. I now have a Herbal Tea Drawer, and I
have realised that there are three spiders living in the corners of my ceiling.
I am doing
Dry January but I would actually love to manage to do the whole of 2020 sober.
Which right now seems like quite the feat but then a few years ago we never imagined
that Colleen Rooney would turn out to be Miss Marple in 2019 – so there you go.
18 days
down, 347 to go. If you need me, I’ll be at T2.
