In Pictures: The Amazing Effects Of Quitting Booze

Sup!

When I first started this blog, back in 2016 (at 1yr sober), my intention was always to take it beyond the boundaries of just my own experiences. One bloke’s perspective is fine for a while, but it can start to become stale for 2 main reasons:

  1. The path that you walk, through problem drinking and then into sobriety, will more than likely resonate with some people, but you’re unlikely to be in a position that you can relate to all booze-issue experiences – for example: the whole ‘wine o’clock school-run mums’ thing is pretty alien to me, as is the idea of needing to drink every morning before facing the world. However! I can write all day long about weekend binges and doing silly things like getting your pink bits out in inappropriate public venues – so blogging ones own views can be a bit one-dimensional and blinkered.
  2. Man, I’ve already written nearly 100 blogs on this subject (including a few articles for magazines etc…) – so that’s probably like 200,000 words about ME and MY THOUGHTS. At some point, I’m going to run out of things to say (oh precious day)…

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My First Hangover In Almost Four Years

Okay, full disclosure; it wasn’t a hangover, but holy freakin’ novelty shitballs did it have all the attributes of one: Brain fog, dehydration, jitters, horrible gurgly stomach, daunting paranoia, cold sweats, yep… the works. Oh and I also had somewhere very important to be where I was expected to be well turned out, sparkly eyed, and ON IT like the, er… Wallace and Gromit.

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Guest Blog: The Freedom Junkie

About five years ago, when I was still gigging with my turbo-messy techno punk band Petrol Bastard, we scored a gig at some big freezing-cold warehouse in Liverpool (I think it was Liverpool anyway. Dunno. Was drunk). From hazy memory I recall it being a total washout; maybe ten people in attendance, all rattling around in a room the size of an aircraft hanger. And most of them were probably only there because they were DJs or bar-staff, so in actual fact there were probably only two or three paying punters there, but fuck it – what did I care? We were getting paid, I was wankered on lovely cheap booze and nothing else mattered. Begone, peasants. I’ll make my own fun. It was a standard shit gig for us, which seemed to account for about 70% of all gigs, so nothing exceptional or exciting. Until, that was, I spotted a familiar-looking guy with piercings and a short spiky mohawk, unpacking a load of t-shirts and CDs onto a table by the back wall. Continue reading