Booze o'clock?

January,

The traditional month of abstinence.

New beginnings: Star Trek 'Genesis', David Bowie 'Changes', 'Friday the 13th Part V: A New Beginning', Star Wars, 'A new hope'.

4 weeks that begin every year for every person over the age of 25 and under the age of 60 with a sacred promise to oneself. It's a valuable moment in all our lives, setting us up with renewed optimism for the year ahead, 'I can do it' ringing in our by now independent from the parental bosom; ear drums.

I won't get home from work, stare at my aging face in the mirror for 20 minutes, disdainfully remove my awful excuse for office clothes and then drink 2 bottles of £2.99 wine; I won't mitigate the misery of wasting away my short time on earth in an office by going out to student populated venues and pretending that I’m a work hard, party hard kind of a guy; I absolutely won't stay up until 4am watching, Spaced or The Office or any other (brilliant) comedy series back to back just because, 'it's a bit like me'; AND BY GOOD GOLLY GOSH, I WILL get a better job, better exercise routine and finish this year in a better financial position that Alan Sugar but with more credibility than Armando Iannucci. ALL WILL LOOK UPON ME AND DESPAIIIIIIRRRRR...

The main sacrifice that all us infidels attempt to resolve is the alcohol.

I recently found a very interesting, though preaching, article about giving up the demon drink, booze, brew, cup, draft, glass, gulp, libation, liquid, liquor, potable, potation, potion, refreshment, shot, sip, slug, spirits, drop, swallow, swig, taste, thirst quencher.........etc

http://www.spiritualriver.com/stop-drinking/

My favourite part is as follows....



For example, a miserable drunk will usually brush the question off entirely, waving his hand and saying “whatever. Take me right now if you want!” That is the miserable desperation of addiction talking. Now if we manage to sober this person up and get them involved with a creative new life in recovery, their answer will likely change quite a bit (I know mine did!). Life becomes precious in recovery.


Surely a conclusion SO conclusive as to open the eyes of even those in Dante's Purgatory who as punishment for envy had their eyes sewn shut with wire.

Despite, feeling that the points made in this article are essentially as 'spot on' and sharp as a Jimmy Carr put down, there is one point that I would like to draw into question........

'Life becomes precious in recovery'

I maintain (and I don't expect support, though do feel free to join me, no man is an island etc), that this is an argument for further fermented grape induced shenanigans......

Mortality is a mouldy old so and so, no one really likes him or his dusty breath.

I should say that there is no good excuse for ushering the old sod into the lounge to hold court, I want him tucked away under the stairwell, out of mind out of site, and if a barrel of rum helps me do this, then the socially acceptable oblivion can stay at my house, sleep with my wife and wear my trousers whenever it wishes.

...Besides, I’m slightly suspicious that if we listen to the booze o'clock nay Sayers then we might just all turn into Richard Simmons......

Christmata.

Not everyone approaches the sexual act the same way.

Whilst that is playing on your mind, i'll switch tack over to the topic at hand, so fluidily that you, the reader, will probably not even notice....Many different factors affect a persons approach to the Christmas festive season; there are generational nuances, class variations, chronology of childhood/adulthood, religious inclination....mental health condition....(the same thing?)

This year was not the Christmas that I expected. Traditionally or at least in recent years, I have spent the build up to Christmas combining working hard to earn an engorged December pay with having a good deal of holiday remaining allowing me to make the holiday period predominantly out of office. Mix this with work Christmas parties, friends parties, seasonal decorations and general good cheer and you have a heady mix that makes that 4/5 day return to the family embrace a warm and upbeat engagement, feeling insufficient in it's fleeting nature.

2009 however and from the off a few pieces were not quite in place. It was like a football missing a talented left winger or a talismatic captain, they can adjust and utilise momentum to flounder through a few matches but ultimately they will fail. Tottenham without Modric, United with Ronaldo, Chelsea without Drogba, Hull without Bullard....

An extended metaphor for those dulled into a coma by the football reference:

Buzzcocks without Bill Bailey, Quinticenssial Englishness as a media presence without Stephen Fry, Mr T without the A-team (see world of warcraft adverts currently on TV), Knight Rider without Hasslehof....

And to reverse the metaphor for indulgence:

Father Ted with chisled good looks, Indiana Jones with CGI'd monkey's...in fact...George Lucas with access to modern technology.....etc.

Back to the point,

I hate my job, it's about as financially productive and as valuable a use of my short life as it would be to post your Gold to those Gold buying companies currently on TV or dressing the concept of time up as a five pound note and swallowing it, then burning your faecal matter a day or two later, having spent the interim time period whilst it worked it's way through your bowels attempting to insert your own elbows into your anus.

I spent my carefully saved holiday days attending interviews for equally as unsatisfying jobs, didn't have the money to enjoy the process of purchasing gifts for others, exploring Christmas or buying luxuries like fucking travel cards.

It weighed on my mind and whilst i made Christmas happen, I didn't feel it.

There was the family event, the big day, a gathering of an extended network of blood line, all under 5ft 9 inches, they gathered stumpy and present laden, ready to save the 'day'.

'You're what, 29 and i'm giving you a stocking filled with presents?' barked my father at 10am Christmas day, after literally dragging me out of bed by my disgruntled foot. One swift reprimand for my pitiful career and several forceful suggestions that i'm a 'bit different' and my illusions of the family embrace healing my wounds like a crying child gripping it's mothers arm, were shattered.

In 1718 BlackBeard made his last stand, staving off inevitable defeat with 25 pirates and a ten gun ship named the Adventurer until he was killed in a gruelling hand to hand battle with his opposing captain.

In December 2009, I made a last stand, staving off an inevitable pitt of despair with an illmanned sense of Christmas cheer and a pen knife with pliers attachment that i recieved as one of an entourage of inexplicable gifts.

However, BlackBeard had his head swung beneath the bows of his enemies ship as a warning and as a sign that the most fearsome scurge of the seven seas had finally been defeated. Christmas 2009 would have no such victory over me, scurge all who like the point to be presented quickly and without going around the houses for the sake of pure indulgence.

Here we are in January 2010 and I am sat at my desk wearing a colourful jumper and a cheery grin, albeit eyes so puffy that they look like Charlie Brooker just got angrier, but i'm chipper.

The long and the short of it is that (like BlackBeard), I had a fucking good time. I enjoyed the incredulous sense of disbelief when I was handed an Ed Byrne DVD, I enjoyed being told that know one in the family understands me and that i couldn't have a lift at 7pm in the evening to go 8 miles, because, 'we are not a taxi service'.

I enjoyed it because it was unique to my breathren clan, absurd and exemplorary of a technically functional British family with absolutely no idea how to communicate and learn from each other.....except, they are and they do, they just haven't a clue how to express it so frustrate each other to the point of utter disbelief which marvelously, no longer comes to a head by way of explosive row....

in fact....

this year....

...It lead instead, to me attending a 'body pump' class that was fronted by a stunningly beautiful blonde woman who was seemingly considerably stronger than I, with my father. A unique way to vent your Christmas frustrations and find a bonding point that welded a generation together in the ridiculous, found sanity amongst the body pumping insane, welded the family middle class in the face of 'them lot with accents' and caused me a serious long term knee injury.

A week well spent.