VIEW FROM THE DESERT

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 19^th 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 39^th 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.