On booze

Or rather, off (the) booze.

I have effectvely been on the wagon since the 2nd April with just two small beers since then; one to celebrate Norwich going up, and one three weeks ago when I thought the drugs should make a flare up of gout unlikely.

I was wrong with the second, so since then, the 4th June, I have not touched a drop.

And here is the odd thing, I don't miss it.

Like many people, I have a long relationship with booze, compounded by 15 years in the RAF. But through that I get easily drunk, am not nasty with it, and prone to find my bed to sleep it all off.

Saying that, drinking with meals was pleasureable, and since the reimposition of lockdown in November, I was drinking more. Helped by the new wine glasses Jen bought that easily can hold over half a bottle.

Most meals demanded wine or beer with them, only a fry up, banger and mash or fish and chips meant a cuppa, everything else was wine or beer.

My first real drink was in 1978, on a holiday in Scotland where children could have a drink with a meal. I was only 13, but my 14th was only a week or two away, so I had a couple of lagers with dinners.

Then, like many, I met Olde English Cider in its one litre bottle version. Someone brought it round to our house when I was allowed to have a party, which was really my male friends headbanging to heavy metal records for three hours. I had some cider, all was well until my parents came home and we were tidying up, and I was staggering down the hall, then rushing to the bathroom.

And so it began.

Drinking at weekend when I went to gigs or later when I turned all smooth and went clubbing, and during the week only having enough money for cans of Royal Dutch lager (2% proof). Drunk enough to be merry, but not too much so to get squiffy.

And then I met Mr Tequila. At a work's dinner dance, someone said why not have chasers with pints? THis never ends well.

This didn't.

Urgh, I still don't drink the stuff.

And then I joined the RAF as an armourer.

Armourers have a reputation, so we tell you, for being hard drinkers.

I drank my share, bought my fair share too, and then ran back to the block to bed.

But I could never, mostly, have more than five pints. And that was rare. I would go out with the intention of drinking until closing time, but soon after the third beer had been quickly supped, I would slow down and get sleepy.

The amount I used to drink, even then, was brought home to me when I attended a reunion in 2015, where us old timers would pretend, for an afternoon and maybe evening, that we could do the things we did when we were in the mob. I saw sense after a couple of hours and wandered off and visited more churches in Lincoln on the way back to the hotel.

The idea of the reunion is far better than the actual experience of it.

I got the taste for whisky, and used to enjoy a wee dram or two in the evenings. But even that faded. Instead really only drinking with meals, then having to try to stay awake afterwards watching the footy or Gardener's World.

And then came gout.

The first week or two was hard.

And then its fine.

And its still fine.

In the end, I would rather be able to go out for a walk, chase orchids or butterflies rather than have a glass of tripel or red plnk with chorizo hash.