I’ve spent a bit of time recently mulling over the reasons that I ever got into this unhealthy relationship with the booze. When I look back at some of the lads I grew up with, and have known since being six or seven years old, there’s no huge difference in the way our lives progressed. So why was it me that ended up taking the whole thing a bit too far? Why did I think it was funny to drink an entire bottle of Jagermeister and then expose myself to a packed room of rock fans in a pub in Scotland? Why did I get landed with the drinking problem? Why not them bastards?
What’s scarier than finding out your mum has been reading your recovery blog, full of nasty stories about what a twat you’ve spent your whole life being?
But it’s cool. I spoke to her on the phone, and the good news is she supports the blog and understands why I write it. There was the initial jolt of HOLYFUK MY SON IS A MONSTER CALL THE FIRE PEOPLE AND THE ZOO KEEPER AND A PRIEST AND EVERYONE WHAT HAVE I DONE WHAT HAVE I DONE but it’s fine. Continue reading