The Weekend at the Lakes

Hi again. Thanks for your tremendous support on the last post. It really means and lot and has inspired me to make my fucking honest sober diary a weekly occurrence, so, thanks. No really. Thanks a lot.

After I well and truly rode that donkey to Seshlehem and back last weekend, having a complete hungover breakdown listening to Morrissey all day on Monday after ringing in sick to work, I can confirm that today, which is also Monday, is a much better day.

I feel fresh, alert, like I have a purpose in a life and a reason to be here. As you know, if you read the last and first post, I am a budding – I hate that word – writer and hope to make this my full time job one day. Well the writing itself has become almost second nature. Since putting the drink down, it seems to just flow through me, like the Jameson’s once did.

I’m not going to sit here and type some bullshit about me having an epiphany and seeing the light. Because 1. I’m not religious and 2. Who wants to hear that shit? You want to hear about my struggles and mental battles when I’m in a Co-Op in the middle of fucking Windermere trying my hardest not to purchase a bottle of Vodka from some uptight bald cunt wearing glasses called Malcolm. Smugly smiling at me as I pass him a White Kit Kat Chunky, he knows full well, I’m staring past his aero-dynamic head and looking with rage at a Goose which is laughing at me on the bottle of Vodka I’m debating to buy. I want to jump over the counter and fucking twist that little cunt of bird’s neck off and pour out it’s innards and berries and whatever other fucking shite geese eat over this bald cunt’s head to brighten his sorry excuse of a face up and give a little bit of life to this dull shithole of a shop. That wasn’t the best English from a budding writer but I’m honestly fuming.

£23.99 for a litre of grey goose which is going to take me to a euphoric oblivion, admittedly I’ll end up at rock bottom again wanting to order an Uber to Barton bridge and do my best Tom Daley impression but remember the important thing. Euphoric Oblivion. Even if it’s just temporary. Euphoric Oblivion. But no, I resist.

This fucking boiled egg prompts me to see if I want anything else in which I kindly decline, bald cunt, and walk out the shop linking the arm of my half-cut girlfriend, envious of her uplifted and jovial mood.

Anyway, the lakes were lovely. Is it were or was? The lakes was lovely? Fuck knows I’m too northern for my own good. But the north is good isn’t it. It’s the heart of the nation. It was George Orwell, I think, who penned ‘Manchester is the guts and belly of the nation’ and I agree. The city I’m from is built on strong-will and determination… and the Irish. Of which I am a descendent. What the fuck am I going on about seriously? I am a right fucking weird waffling bastard, I digress.

Right, anyway. The lakes. Yeah beautiful. So from the last update on this woefully pathetic diary, my girlfriend surprised me with a night away in a Bohemian Hotel in Windermere. Bohemian? I was expecting Freddie Mercury to bring up the Eggs Benedict in the morning, telling me how he’s just killed a man. An anecdote my girlfriend didn’t find amusing driving into 25mph winds near Preston. But no, apparently if you stick a hot tub in the bathroom of a hotel now you call it a Bohemian hotel. You’re fucked if I know why. But anyway, I’m proud, in a perverse way, of myself for not indulging in one drop of devil juice and staying sober. That’s 8 days today, by the way.

Upon arrival of the Bohemia, which we’ll call it for namesake, I don’t want you cunts slating them for alcohol they were throwing in my face, a recovering sesh-head, throughout my stay, on trip advisor. They weren’t to know I was piss head were they? Anyway, upon walking through the glass doors of the Bohemia, you’re greeted by a complimentary glass of Prosecco, which I deflected into the path of my better halves’ gullet, whilst I opted for a glass of diet coke, which I’m pretty sure I drink more than fucking water itself since retiring from the drunk tank.

Our room wasn’t quite ready so the concierge, which it had on her silver-plated name badge, decided to talk us through the 16 million different types of gins they stocked. I don’t know how to tell her without being rude I’m off the drink because I’m a degenerate alcoholic who can’t say no to a drop whether it be the gently-distilled juniper-infused delights of your raspberry gin, produced in the wombs of virgin sunflower harvesters, or a nice chilled glass of paint stripper, which would of saved Caitlyn Jenner a lot of money. Nothing against trans by the way – I’m all for being yourself, as you can tell by this shitstorm of words I like to call ‘a Blog’. Anyway, I’m 5 seconds away from telling this busy fucker that I’m not drinking before her Slovakian compatriot kindly informs us that our room was ready. Thank fuck.

So, after the brief awkward tour of the room whilst she stands there and you tell her everything is lovely, she hands us a laminated menu of the wine list, hot tub proof, of course. She then lets us know it’s 2 for 1 on champagne, that the bar is open until 1am, the room service is 24 hours, there’s 4 pubs in walking distance, a mini fridge in the bathroom and that the fucking whiskey is brought up on a diamond platter by a unicorn. I bid her farewell and calm myself down.

It does make you think doesn’t it, in this country, everything we like to do when we’re not sat at a desk 40 hours a week, revolves around alcohol. Everywhere you look it’s there. Behind Malcolm, the bald cunt, at the shop. It’s advertised in all the windows. She didn’t even mention anything about the shower, hot tub, spa bath. Nothing. Just where the drink is and how this fuck head can get his hands on it. Do I really look that much of a drunkard? I mean I’m not the best looking cunt that you’ve seen but I’m hardly Shane Macgowan. I don’t think you look at me and scream piss head. I don’t think anyway. I’m getting anxiety so I’m moving on.

If you were on a weekend away in the lakes with a hot tub in your room, cosy pubs on the horizon and a 24 hour alcoholic room service, I think most cunts in my position would crumble. But I didn’t. I resisted and filled my time with food. Admittedly I ate my way through aisle 6 of Malcolm’s, the bald cunt’s, shop and cleared them out of Triple Chocolate Cookies but, I did remain sober. And I do feel quite good about myself for doing that.

We even went out for a slap up meal on the Saturday, which was beautiful, and I resisted any urges. My girlfriend still drinks, which I have no qualms with at all because she doesn’t have a problem. She was ordering double gin and tonics, getting the prosecco delivered to our room and enjoying herself. Rightly so. She’s can turn it on or off. That’s the problem with me. I have no off button. It’s all in or nothing at all. I would still be on it now sniffing coke with fucking Wallace and Gromit and the other farming bastards from that way if I had that complimentary glass of Prosecco. But I didn’t. And today I don’t feel like a fool, I don’t have crippling anxiety, I’m getting a lot done and I feel fucking fantastic truth be told, Nessa moment again. I think I’ll be all right now until the weekend, then it’s Christmas, then New Year’s Eve. So, expect loads of ranting and updates in this honest fucking sober diary.

Again, if you made it this far, thanks so much for reading. It means a lot. When I posted my last post on Facebook a lad, my memories fucked from years of whiskey on the rocks mate sorry, messaged me saying that he’d been having strong urges to drink that night and reading my blog post curbed and eased them. Which is an amazing feeling. I mean all I’m doing really is ranting to some imaginary cunt I don’t even know. I don’t even know if anyone will read this do I really? But I’m just sat here tapping away ranting – and someone is finding comfort and encouragement in that. That is fucking mental.

Cheers you lovely people,

Jack X

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