An Introduction.

I never wrote this to please anyone, just to get my thoughts on paper and hopefully re-read this blog before I naively fucking decide to go for 1 pint with a friend, an offer which will inevitably present itself in the not too distant future.

I hope you appreciate the honesty. I don’t apologise for the swearing. Thanks for reading.

I wouldn’t say I’m an alcoholic, I’d say I’m more of a city drinker. I can’t label myself as a binge drinker because that would imply I drink once a week and take it to the extreme. I drink 5 days a week and either drink because I believe I’ve earned it, or drink to numb the anxiety which was self-induced and caused by my sudden and often urge to ‘reward myself’.

It’s a lose-lose situation. When I’ve been off the booze for 2 days consecutively, I’m more productive, sharp, witty and confident than when I’ve sunk half a bottle of £8 Tesco Whiskey and watched a documentary on Brendan Behan thinking I’m some sort of Irish Poet who is more creative after a drink.

I seem to think that when I finish work, a bottle of whiskey, wine or brandy will make me more productive. I have this romantic idea of me sitting down at my laptop, writing with a glass of scotch, churning out the most eloquent colloquialisms and language since Wilfred Owen was scribbling in the trenches. But it doesn’t happen. I’m not in the trenches. I’m in a one bedroomed flat in South Manchester, so I turn the TV on and binge-watch alcoholics like Shane Macgowan and Oliver Reed, thinking that my regular drinking is acceptable, cool and stylish. When really my regular drinking is slowing my progress down as a person and is in fact foolish.

The day after a bottle of whiskey comes; the anxiety, laughable train of thought, stuttering, lack of confidence, wanting to hide under the quilt until the next day, neediness, tiredness, tongue like Gandhi’s flip flop. It’s all horrible. I’d rather be genuinely struck down with a real illness than actually have to experience another hangover. The anxiety and lack of confidence really is a killer. Unfortunately, the only remedy for a hangover is more drinking. All this bollocks about a cold shower, a fucking smoothie and some ginger in your morning water. Utter shite. Sorry for the swearing. It’s just nonsense. The only thing that will get you out of that confidence-shattering abyss is half a bottle of whiskey, by the time you’ve ingested that you’ll feel back to normal, and knowing that the other half will get you back on top of the world, it’s a dangerous process.

I’m a writer, a business owner and I have a day job. Like everyone I want to ditch the 9-5 and stop answering to my fucking cunt of a boss and I feel like alcohol is the hurdle in which I can’t get over to achieve my dreams of finally ending the money-slaving routine of working for a living. I think it was Charles Bukowski who penned “How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 8:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?” – how ironic that a quote I use is from another piss head.

So yeah, I’ve decided to nail this shit on the head once and for all. It comes after a night out on Saturday for the Manchester Derby. We met in a Wetherspoons in the city centre around midday. I arrived early so I could get a Stella and a Double Whiskey in before my two other mates arrived – because I don’t have confidence when I’m sober. Which is absolute bollocks by the way. I’m the most confident guy you could meet and genuinely don’t give a fuck about what anyone thinks, so cliché – for which, this time, I do apologise.

 But in my head, and a mixture of me being a twat with my girlfriend as I get too excited to go out and can’t wait, and convincing myself I needed that whiskey before they got there. I assured myself I’d be sharper, more on the ball and making them laugh more if I got that double whiskey and a pint in. Truth be told, I had 2 double whiskey’s and was on my 3^rd pint by the time they turned up. I was smashed before them and had to grab an ‘emergency bag of cocaine’ so I could even fucking make it to kick off for the match – of which I still can’t remember where we watched it.

So yeah, I didn’t sleep that night. I spent around £300 and fuck knows how much I drunk or shoved up my nostril. Probably £290’s worth (the other £10 for 20 cigs’. We stayed up all night at my mates, I’m feeling ashamed as I write this, as he went to sleep at 8am. I lay on his couch until about quarter past, went for a cigarette and admitted defeat. In admitting defeat I realised I’m not going to be able to sleep, an effect of drugs and drink. I went into his kitchen, searching for anything I could, and started tucking into a bottle of Jameson’s watching Blue Planet. 8:30am in the fucking morning. I was pissed by 10am and as my addictive personality came into play, I realised that this day was going to be one spent three sheets to the wind. It was a Sunday.

My mate came down and seen me drinking on his couch, knowing that I wouldn’t leave until every drop of anything wet, cold, fizzy or alcoholic was drunk in that fucking house, he ordered me a taxi and I went to my other mates house. I turned up uninvited, telling him a lie that his older brother, who I’ve known longer, said it was fine with me coming around. I enticed him to come to the pub, he’s as bad an influence of me, and straight again we were back on the drink.

Simultaneously I was receiving the inevitable and justifiable earache from my girlfriend about where the fuck I am, where I have been and what the fuck I’m playing out. We don’t live together but she told me not to come home in which I went home, drank more, and rang in sick to work the next day.

The Monday was my anniversary with my girlfriend, and it was nearly almost spoiled if it wasn’t for me being able to charm her out of any situation. But anyway, I’m fucking waffling on here.

Right basically, I’m quitting the booze. I cannot be arsed with it anymore. At the time I’m drinking, yeah, I’m on top of the world but by the time I’m on my 8^th pint, I’m a cunt. So, I’m stopping. I put it alcohol above anyone and anything else and it must stop. As with anyone, who’s fucking made it this far in this blog post – I would have clicked away by now, I’ve destroyed relationships with family and friends and I’ve just regressed into a drink and drug-fuelled cunt. I want it to stop.

I know I can come across arrogant and like a teenage little turd who sits in his bedroom listening to Linkin Park thinking he’s so hard done too. But I want to get this off my chest and I want something to refer to when I get faced with the opportunity of going on a ‘sesh’ or a bender.

If you’ve made it this far. I thank you. I’m not sure why but it seems like the time to say it. If you’re feeling the same, I hope it inspires you and makes you think you’re not alone. I’m going to try and update it weekly so please, before you touch the bottle and end up hating yourself again the next day. Please refer to this blog (which as you can tell I still haven’t named at the time of writing this which is 15:46 on 11/12/2019. Fuck knows why I told you that anyway).

I hoped you appreciated the honesty and let’s stop being cunts together.

Jack X