Monday, 4 July 2011

Dropping the bitch, Part 1.


Welcome to what will hopefully become a chronicle of success, a memoir of triumph, a slow burning entry into the bizarre and upsetting harshness of The Real World.
Part 1s of anything are always particularly problematic, I'd rather begin with part 4 but the intricacies and truths that govern the laws of physics tend to make such things impossible, or at least mind bogglingly difficult.

See Amy up there? Well, this is like how the inside of my brain tends to feel on a frighteningly continual basis. Which is why I'm attempting to slap the hand of the demon drink and become an unusual member of the British public, that being a sober one.
I've drank pretty much intemperately and with a customarily handsome nature for the last 13 years and after one startling twinge in the chest department too many it seems like the right and just time to drop the flag and come in from the pond. Now, I don't wish to paint a picture of oneself as a screaming alcoholic, fishing around for the last drops of vodka in a takeaway carton strewn bedsit on the edge of humanity because that would, as any reader should expect, be a falsity. I do, however, recognise enough piss-littered signposts to know when to pull the car over and admit I can't drive; signs such as the aforementioned kitchen knife chest pains, erratic sleeping patterns, the sudden and uncontrollable urge to hoist one's lumpen form under a speeding wagon, crushing anxiety attacks and the noticeable fleshy appearance that was once the whites of one's eyes (so I should presume anyhow) to name but a few.
These are the things that once in the not too forgotten past (or the negative near future if one wishes to be humorous, which one doesn't) that I wouldn't have to deal with as they simply didn't happen. I was perfectly, and rightly, happy to wallow as an intoxicated, prolapsed, grinning streak of tendrils only a short time ago, a form that I was quite pleased with. I was more than able to get along with myself as this fast, hilarious fop which I found more entertaining than the grim sour-puss that only hours before preceded him, only to awake the next day and begin the transformation once more. These days I'm lucky if I wake up.

And here lies the point; it's not as simple as complaining when a brain disintegrating hangover rears its bruised pig fists, it's about things such as finding the foresight to take time away from one's m├ętier because you know that when that day arrives it will most certainly be the day after the night before and work is something that will be an impossible undertaking. Again, previously this wouldn't have been a problem, but holding down a job whilst routinely picking up the bottle requires a dexterity that I myself seem to lack. I'd have more success painting a herd of toads whilst on a bouncy castle.

This is the first day of a new found sobriety and yesterday was it's counterpoint, I crossed the helix in the night and whilst I awoke with the sadly predictable after effects there is a gleaning grain amongst the physical and mental dullness in the knowledge that today's agony is something to perversely savour, like a particularly wretch worthy soup before the bleeding steak arrives. Who wouldn't rather be steaky than soupy?

So this entry into a blog that doesn't really serve any purpose hasn't been particularly hilarious, arguably neither have any of the other entries, but it's to act as more a measuring device on how far this fantastical process can go.
It'll be a fairly easy twist of the knife to mock and cajole and if it was one of you then I would no doubt do the same, but in 6 months time when I'm taking a dip in a real human life human swimming pool instead of an algae strewn pond of piss and tears I will more than happily put you forward for membership if you require it.

I WILL BE CLEAN AND MEATY, MY ONLY INTERACTION WITH HALF FORMED MEMORIES WILL BE THE PRINCESS FANTASY LAND DREAMS THAT DRENCH MY MIND WHEN I HAVE BEAUTIFULLY TIMED SLEEP, MY HAIR WILL GLISTEN LIKE ARCING TRAILS OF GOD'S OWN SPUNK AND MY TEETH WILL NO LONGER CARRY THE MARKINGS OF A PUB CEILING.

This is a continuing diary my friends...