How to Be an Alcoholic

Half of you know how already.

Around 8% of the world’s population has an alcoholic waiting impatiently for service in their DNA.

The way we respond to alcohol has been shown to indicate our chances of ending up an ic with that ism. If you’re Mr Life And Soul Of The Party, that many-barreled surname is a dead giveaway. Turns out, alcoholism is every gifted drinker’s inherited destiny. It’s the fun drunks at 25 that often make for the sad ones at 50.

My genetic cocktail is one part Irish, one part Scottish, two parts Northern - which is about as strong as God makes ‘em. All the places on earth where they don’t even call alcoholism alcoholism. 

Nothing wrong with a few drinks after work, and at the weekend, of course - even then, only for as long as you live. There’s as much drinking on either side of my family as any other numbing away the evenings on these sad, damp little isles. Short of a lifetime’s self-monitoring, I’m sure I will make a phenomenal alcoholic. 

It’s not fair to people really struggling with drinking to ever call mine anything near a problem. But the ancient practice of boozism has started to enter my life in the past. 

Me and my roomie from another womb-ie were having a few drinks a night, not really thinking much of it. As routine became habit, there was a strange tension as the glasses were measured out. We were both making absolutely certain our best friend didn’t screw us out of half a gulp of cheap wine. 

By myself, I formed a one-man litty committee in his stead. Drinking alone is actually a vibe. Bumping around the kitchen with some music on, making little in-jokes with your own babbling stream of consciousness. Then after a few more, with the kitchen itself. 

As 9:30 pm approached each night, I could feel the itch of the clock. The licensing hours of the local supermarket were hardcoded into my chromosomes. 

After getting outhaggled by my impulses, I’d rush out the door and into a swaying queue of last-gasp alkies. Despite holding onto my €2 bottle for dear life, I felt tremendous pity for all these actual alcoholics fidgeting along with their cartons of wine. Tragic, really.

The hidden cost of alcoholism is all the purchases made to look less of a one-track rummy. First up, plonk a midweek staple down onto the conveyor belt. Milk, classic. Followed by an obscure item, which would surely seem like the main function of the shop. Yes, cauliflower. They’ll never see that coming. All in a dire attempt to disguise your sad little plan from the cashier. Anything but the lone beep of judgement.

Is that everything sir?

You know full fucking well it is. 

In the same wine-stained chapter, I was on a second date with a girl - in terms of our limping courtship and the whole gender - when a no-good bottom-feeding thought crossed my mind. 

As I passed her her-drink, my brain announced That’s my drink. I want that drink. Take that back. The booze was seriously suggesting I make her beer, my beer, by force. Incidentally, sitting alone with those two overpriced pints was actually the right call. Sorry on that one, old boy.

Even though football bores me, I developed a near-daily habit to make me feel better about drinking. Just watching The match, having a few tins, who could begrudge me that? Out of season, I found myself streaming women’s club team friendlies to justify seeing off a four-pack alone. 

The booze was creeping up on me and whispering its topical justifications in my ears. 

Jesus, after that day, I need a drink. Tonight - we’re celebrating! It’s bloody miserable today, let’s cozy on up with a nice glass of wine? C’monnn suns out! I just need to de-stress this evening. Ahhh this is perfect, a little tipple would just be the icing on the cake.

There’s always something. My thirsty-ass thoughts take such a lighthearted tone with me. Just like the old friend getting you on the piss which they, in fact, are.

Sometimes my inner-boozer’s attempts are laughably off the mark. Browsing for a lifeless train station sarnie on the way to a big meeting:

My brain (in a Mexican accent): Just a little mo-ji-tooo?  

Me: What? Haha. No. You’re going to have to try harder than that, mate. 

I try to ask myself if it is myself who actually wants a drink. Or is this just another order from the back bar of my brain. 

These days I’ll go weeks, months without giving booze a second thought. Then, when I do have a sip, booze is every second thought. 

I’m hardly in a lifelong battle with alcoholism, it’s closer to a drawn-out skirmish - and I’ve pretty much got the bastard beat. But alcohol is always there, waiting in the wings with a cool, comforting pint. C'mon mate, you deserve it.