Okay, so last night you REALLY fucked up. You’ve woken up in a bad place – possibly both mentally (oh the paranoia!) and geographically (wtf why am I in a zoo!) – and you’ve finally decided that enough is enough. The booze buzz is more hassle than it’s worth. You’ve ruined too many relationships, wasted too much money, knocked over too many tables, bruised too many knees, and shagged too many mingers. Continue reading
There’s a lot written about the benefits of sobriety. Indeed, I’m personally responsible for contributing towards this ever-growing pile of woolly guff; endless reams of words spewing from laptops all over the world, about how stopping drinking will clear up your spotty skin, and help you lose 5 stone in 3 months, and turn you from debt-ridden scum into a highly respected business magnate overnight. There’s the health benefits, the financial benefits, the brain-sharpening benefits, the depression-killing benefits. Being sober will help you to work harder, to shag better, to live longer, and to look handsomer (it’s a real word, I googled it). People have published books about this shit. They’ve made TV programmes and podcasts. Businesses have been founded, and are now thriving, which focus solely on sharing the good word of sober living. It’s like a magic pill that fixes everything! Everyone in the world of sobriety wants to shout about their new lifestyle, their new look. HEY EVERYONE LOOK AT WHAT SOBRIETY CAN TURN YOU INTO! LOOK AT MY SUITCASE OF MONEY! CHECK OUT MY SOFT HAIR! But let’s not forget, amidst this pink mire of yoga trousers, ultra-marathon runners, and vegan cookbooks, one of the most primal and basic benefits that quitting drinking can bring; the one benefit that is quite often the catalyst for a lifetime of sobriety. That one golden nugget for which we all strive, and which only sobriety can truly bring us…
Until recently I knew very little of Mark EG:
- He’s a DJ that makes ferociously POUNDING tunes
- He’s from Leeds (oi oi! Up the northerners! Etc…)
- Looks like a fucking possessed nutter behind the decks
In years gone by I’ve occasionally found myself, in various states of inebriation, staggering around dancefloors at his shows whilst dribbling into my pint. This has definitely happened in Leeds, definitely in London, and potentially at a club in Liverpool. I’m not sure why I’ve only seen him in places that start with L. Continue reading
A couple of weeks ago I received a lovely email from one of my readers, a Spanish lady who has proudly reached her six month sobriety milestone after a few false starts. And proud she should be! Those first six months are probably the toughest, but also the most rewarding to get through, with the mad nightmares and beer cravings finally starting to subside, and the fog of a brain battered by perpetual hangovers beginning to lift.
Keen to mark this occasion she asked if she could write a guest blog for SoberPunks, and share her story with all of you fellow sweaty man-babies.
I said NO, but she threatened to come round and kick the fuck out of me – so here it is, completely unedited for full Spanish effect:
It’s now been a month since I had my balls mangled, and everything is pretty much back to normal down there. I’ve got a couple of empty cups at home that need spunking in and emptying into a post box for a doctor to taste (“mmm yes that tastes lovely, and I’m glad to report it’s sperm free”), but that’s not due until September.
A sudden sharp intake of breath.
Oh God! Oh fucking God! What is this? Where am I?
Light dapples through the darkness, turning into thick, white, distorted lazer beams as the rays are captured and bent and twisted by my mangled eyelashes and my thick, crusty eye-goop.
I roll over and push my face down into the pillow. Force myself back towards the warm world of sleep, and dreams about exotic sports cars, and roller coasters built in strangely familiar places, and sex with fat women. Anything to avoid having to think about what awaits me beyond these eyelids. If only they could be locked down and used to keep the outside world away – like a couple of sturdy rusted portcullises; keeping me merrily oblivious to the land outside of this fogged, befuddled head. I consider, for a second, that that may be the experience of coma sufferers. Cut off from everything in front of the eyes, and left floating in a strange galaxy of dreams, limited only by the imagination of the vegetative party. Continue reading