Alcoholism Light

Writer + Alcoholism = Literary Titan

Don’t get your hopes up. I’m not the kind of alcoholic the great writers were.

Those swashbuckling boozers that, each morning, would unfurl a single line of profound verse from a bar-room napkin, clenched within a bloodied fist. More the nagging onset of alcoholism, which quite-fancies a pint at every, single, possible, waking opportunity.

A drinker’s problem is measured by the variable pitch of the week’s empties clattering into the wheelie bin. Divided by the shame that recyclable cacophony moves inside them. Mostly, I’m down to a few respectable clinks.

I’ve never had a problem with drink, but my squiffy narrator is quietly hell-bent on causing one. If I took the ol’ boy up on any of his breakfast-time cravings, I really would have an issue worth exploring - but, I don’t. This cheeky predisposition will float the idea of a lager at times only acceptable in the sloshed contexts of British: airports, Christmases and ex-pat strongholds. Oh shhh, you daft, old soak.

I can’t keep beer in the house, because ignoring that bottle - and all that dewy refreshment running off the slopes of its cool, slender shoulde-ahem, excuse me - occupies far too much of my working mental energy.

Now, I am not a cunning man. What you see, is what you get: a defunct human bollard - hollow, purposeless, aspirationally middle-of-the-road*. The thirstier side of my head, however, is a washed-up grandmaster playing 11D chess for its next glassful. My rational mind is 12 steps behind this sozzled maestro. He who is forever orchestrating a midweek surprise cocktail party.

In a show of entry-level gentlemanliness, I insisted on picking my girlfriend up from a TED Talk across the city. No, no, I won’t hear it, it’s late, it’s dangerous, I’m coming, darling - and that’s that! On the way, my mind took a well-earned break from celebrating its own decency - Ah they did give out a free gin and tonic, last year, didn’t they, actually? Oh, here’s an idea, maybe… we… could have one?

In a way, the lazy sot is actually a more thoughtful partner than I am. The hooch dresses up its demand in the thin cloak of my better human instincts.

But good god, I love booze. As a beer slips down my throat, I know I’m home. The stuff works for me like those corny amber-toned adverts, with pudgy, accessibly-handsome men laughing and belly-bumping. Even when I’m by myself. So I’ll keep shooing away its advances, just enough to enjoy it.

*Tad harsh. I think I need to start meditating again.

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