It’s coming to an end, this great love affair of mine. It’s nobody’s fault. There isn’t anyone else but the magic has gone and my relationship rule is this: when the good starts to outweigh the bad, it’s time to say goodbye. Me and alcohol – one of the great loves of my life – are going to have to call it a day. We’ll still be able to see each other but not with the gay abandon of yesteryear. Now and again I’ll no doubt do that thing where you leap into bed with an ex: get spannered. But those flings will become fewer and further between and increasingly filled with regret until it really is over. And there was me thinking it was forever. Fool.
I have always been able to handle my jars. I used to be known as ‘The Warrior’ because of the amount I could put away and still get to the office on time the following morning (which was sometimes a continuation of the night before) with a smiling face and flammable breath.
But it changed when I hit 40. It was nothing to do with it ‘not being a good look’ because I’m not sure I believe in that prescriptive crap but it was everything to do with the nature of the hangovers. They became unacceptably awful and unacceptably lengthy. Two days of physical ennui followed by one of the Mean Reds and yet another of gloom. Three drinks is my limit these days. That wouldn’t have touched the sides when I was properly pissed-fit.
But I mourn my half-a-bottle of vodka and a packet of fags nights. What’s a party without a drink or nine? Over by 10:30 that’s what. I grieve for the mission drinking that was so carefree. I want to be the drunken arsehole that I always was. Now I’m just left with the arsehole part. Bugger it.