meta boozing

On a clear morning last October, I took the dog out for a walk on the beach. My body was so tight that I struggled to walk down the steps to the sand. I let him off the lead and watched him skedaddle over the golden plain, paws pumping him along, his head thrown about in canine abandon. I plodded along behind him, my temples pressed against my brain, my neck twitching with a fervour. Despite the autumn sun, all was dark. Another day about to be wasted recovering from the seismic amount of alcohol I had once again willingly put inside my body. The dog turned to look at me, his eyes bright with undistilled lust for each moment. I envied him. I hated that I would never feel as happy about anything as he did about the simple act of movement.

Nine months on from that day and I have not had a drink since. I did not follow any program. I was not lifted up by an inspirational quote. I did not experience any traumatic episode stemming from my chaotic boozing. Perhaps the bounding optimism and energy of my dog did inspire me in some small way; it would make a lovely story. The truth was that I was exhausted by the effort of existing.

I can’t remember being sober. I think I must have been at times. There had been weeks, or sometimes months, when I put a pause on drinking after a particularly hard period of imbibing. None of those spikes of abstinence were the beginning of a new way. They only existed when the relief brought to me by booze was negated by the darkness it readily spawned. I was always ready to go back and sup at the chalice once I had deemed myself fit for service again. I have horror stories of what happened in those forty years, but you will have heard them all before. I know why I drank and what I was seeking relief from, but you will have heard all that before too. I know that I lost friends, lovers, jobs, opportunities, parts of my health, all to the pursuit of never feeling anything ever again.

Forty years of drinking does not simply peel away from you like damp wallpaper. The first week, I lay on the sofa watching Peep Show for the twentieth time. I could feel myself dissolving into the warm comfort of the cushions. During that time, I ventured out to the cafe a few doors down for a fried breakfast. It’s a great place and I have eaten there many times, yet the food now tasted of precisely nothing. The life-saving properties of the trad fried plate were redundant without a tumultuous hangover to tame. I ended the day eating a bag of peanut M&Ms whilst soaking in the bath.

Losing your favourite hiding place is tough. When irritation, anger, or sadness arose, there was no magic in a can to spirit me away to a transient state of not needing to feel it anymore. At first I would walk past the shop and imagine all the drinks inside. I would construct elaborate fantasy worlds where I was drinking, where the liquid was coursing through me and applying wee plasters to everything. Somehow, this worked. A short session in the metaboozeverse was surprisingly effective in getting me through some shitty days. I have foregone pretending to drink. It seems a very daft strategy in retrospect but, hey, it worked. Don’t, however, try that at home.

The following weeks clicked by. There were times when the urge to seek relief in a giant can of vodka-soaked fizzy pop gripped me. The tiny convenience shop up the road sang to me like the sweetest of sirens. I managed to swerve the rocks, even if I could almost touch them at times. I avoided pubs altogether for the first few months, even as a chorus of voices told me how great no- and low-alcohol beers were nowadays. I wanted to tell them that it was never about the taste, but that seemed churlish in the face of their good intentions. I wondered how the poorly named ‘festive period’ would feel in a life without booze. In reality, the thought of sharing a pub with the once-a-year boozers felt like the rawest of all the hells. I spurned Christmas drinks invites from friends and felt relieved that I would not be part of a celebration I had never actually wanted to celebrate.

January felt more like a new year than ever before. There were no resolutions. I felt like my brain was beginning to recover. Not just better cognitive results, but also that it was starting to guide me in new directions. I started doing healthy things, but never as a defined intention. My diet began to become naturally healthier. I started running again purely because I really wanted to. I began weight training in my front room. I also stopped eating animal products, which is a moral take, but the revelation was that it had always been my moral take, only now did I feel able to translate it into my actual life. I lost a ton of weight without really trying. For all these developments, there was no entry on a ‘must do in 2026’ spreadsheet, indeed not even a prolonged discussion in my head. They simply came to be as I stopped chasing the temporary relief that drinking had given me.

All these months on, I haven’t cracked it in any sense. I still feel difficult stuff that I want to jump up and down on. Knowing that I will survive, maybe even thrive, when I don’t drink is a wondrous gift, one that I hope I am never without. I still take the dog to the beach each day and I still marvel at him bounding across the sand, his head full of nothing, his gleaming golden retriever smile lighting up the morning.