It’s clear to me that I can’t really drink alcohol anymore.
It’s just not worth the repercussions.
Anyway this is all Stephen Sutton’s fault.
In my infinite wisdom, I decided that it would be a good idea to cut out a photo of him and stick it to my fridge, so that if I was stressing, grizzling, crying, feeling sorry for myself, worried about something, inwardly dying etc. I could look at it, take inspiration and ask myself ‘What would Stephen do?‘
Great idea, huh? I was quite chuffed with myself for coming up with that. Who wouldn’t snap out of their shit and pull their finger out at the sight of Stephen beaming kindly at them through his specs?
Trouble was, as day turned into night, it started to make me feel a bit paranoid.
I used to have a friend who was big into a form of yoga and meditation that is run by a big ass, almost corporate organisation in the US, and for a while, I dabbled with it too. Andy, delighted, dragged me along to a group satsang with him one evening, and whilst some of the devotees looked a bit out of it and zombie like, I loved the sense of community, the chanting and the meetings, and the mail out correspondence course that landed on my mat every month did seem to be spookily relevant to my life at any given time.
Then one day, Andy gave me a framed photograph of his guru as a gift. And whilst it looked very nice at the makeshift alter in my bedroom, I was uncomfortably aware of her eyes following me around the room a la Mona Lisa, and her expression had changed from being lovely and ‘Ohm’ to being rather ‘Hmmm…’.
As in ‘Hmmm, you don’t fool me dear, not for one second…’
And she freaked me out so much that I had to take it down and put it away in a drawer, where it probably is still to this day (ridiculously I didn’t dare chuck it out), and I gradually moved away from that particular cult, I mean, sojourn in my life.
And now, 20 years later, I appear to be getting ‘Hmms’ from my Hero, SS.
And it made me really twitchy and restless.
So much so that I really started to want a drink.
Not just a small beer.
Not just a modest glass of wine.
I’d remembered that I had a nearly full bottle of sloe gin left over from Christmas.
I know. I know, I know, I know…
But just for once, I just wanted to get shit faced. I didn’t want to meditate, I didn’t want to pray, I didn’t want to actively forgive and I didn’t want to think about anything.
I just wanted that warm, buzzy, muzzy, fuzzy feeling, to watch the sharp edges of the world magically blur and to stagger off to bed and disappear into dreamless unconsciousness.
It only took two glasses. I was always a bit of a lightweight, but nowadays I’m beyond pathetic.
My vision swam, the edges blurred, and when I finally retired, I crashed spark out and didn’t wake up till morning.
And I felt awful.
Not hungover or headachy.
Just as if all the bad stuff in the world had seeped into my being, leaving me, in turn, indifferent, angry, resentful, sad, lonely, hopeless, hated and hateful.
Today was the hottest day in the UK this year, and I’ve spent it indoors, swaddled up in fleecy gym wear and swigging hot mugs of tea, staring mindlessly at my computer screen.
And I still feel cold.
And now the sun has set and I feel so alone.
Even my friend/foe the moon is nowhere to be seen.
And that bottle of gin in the cupboard is keening and calling to me.
I really want some. I just want this fucking day to end.
It’s not fair! I barely drink anything compared with my friends!
But I know it’s to do with it clashing with my meds.
I go out to the kitchen, and there he is, smiling at me, eyes a twinkle.
‘You needn’t start giving me evils either’ I mutter to myself, ‘I bet you caned it big style of a Saturday night!’
Yes, but he was a teenager, Sista!
The smile seems to widen, and I remember what he’s doing there.
It’s hard when someone less than half your age makes you feel twice the degenerate.
I put the gin back in the cupboard, put the kettle on and wonder grimly how long it will take me to get to sleep tonight without any booze.
God I could do with some spliff.
Just as well they don’t sell that at my Sainsburys.
Well it’s goodnight from me, and it’s goodnight from him.