SoberPunks Interview: Legendary Techno DJ Mark EG

Until recently I knew very little of Mark EG:

  1. He’s a DJ that makes ferociously POUNDING tunes
  2. He’s from Leeds (oi oi! Up the northerners! Etc…)
  3. 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

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Guest Blog: The Six Months Sober Spanish Señorita

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:

Continue reading

Quitting Booze Successfully: A Paradoxical Wanky Climbing Analogy

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.

Continue reading

Hungover (A Horror Story)

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