Self-imposed alcohol exile has finally ended

MY wife believes – wrongly – have a “problem” with alcohol.

This is unfair, untrue and possibly actionable.

I enjoy alcohol immensely, it helps me unwind after a gruelling day. To me, that is not a problem, it’s an answer.

Similarly, my wife enjoys Italian food. I have never accused her of having a pasta problem.

“Heed what the adverts say,” she implored, “and drink sensibly.”

I do.

“You do not!” she ranted. “What about the fancy dress party where you were discovered head-first in a plant pot attired as Robin Hood?”

The fact a refuse collector suffered a hernia lifting our bottle bin has only added to her fears.

To appease my wife, I’ve spent seven long days on the wagon. It’s been an educational journey. I’ve learned aftershave, even when mixed with Coke, burns the back of your throat.

That self-imposed exile came to an end on Friday.

Addicts have entered crackhouses

I may with more casual bonhomie than I showed when sprinting into the Drum and Monkey’s snug.

“I cannot believe,” said my drinking companion Colin, “that you have gone a whole seven days without alcohol.”

“Seven days, six hours, 32 minutes, 30 seconds and counting,” I corrected. “Haven’t even thought about a drink, to be honest,” I told him with a dismissive wave of my hand.

“I can’t help noticing, though,” pointed out my companion, “that you’re sucking the bar towel.”

“That’s because he’s taking so bloody long to pour the beer,” I bellowed, tears of frustration welling in my eyes.

“Come on,” chided Colin, “you’re a three-pints-a-night man and then wine afterwards. You must’ve found it difficult.”

“Once those little pink elephants had stopped dancing round my bed, not at all,” I lied, craning my neck to see if the barman had finished pouring the ale that would signal the end of my brief sabbatical from the amber nectar.

“For God’s sake, man,”

I snapped.

“It’s a pint of beer, not a work of art. Just pour the bloody thing!”

It’s the longest I’ve been without booze... tell a lie, I once went 14 years without alcohol.

That was one hell of a 14th birthday party.

“Do you

Colin.

“I haven’t been able to sleep for a piggin’ week, what do you think?” I mumbled before grasping the frothing pint in trembling hands.

“So why did you stop drinking?” “A few things happened that made me realise I had to cut down,” I admitted.

“Like the time you cried when they called last orders?” quizzed my colleague.

Not just that, thing.

“I know,” Colin nodded, “drinking that aftershave because there was no wine in the house could’ve killed you.”

At that point, the genial Mine Host burst into the bar and pointed an accusing finger.

“Where the hell have you been?” he ranted. “The wife and I have been worried feel better for it?” asked it was more a health to death.

“Next time you intend to stay away for more than 24 hours, perhaps you’d have the common courtesy to ring us.”

“I don’t know,” he muttered, “you treat this place like a hotel.”

He shook his head. “It’s not on. We haven’t got a clue what time you’re coming in or where you’ve been. You’ll be saying you don’t want your pickled egg next.”

“Barry,” I interrupted, “was that you who rang my house at 11pm every night and shouted, ‘last orders’?”

“Just trying to help,” he huffed before slamming a hefty document on the counter. “Do you know what this is? It’s a business plan.”

I gazed at the dog-eared pamphlet. “What do those numbers mean?” I asked.

“They’re projected daily beer sales.” “And the letters ‘ML’ next to them – would those be my initials?” “They would.”

“Sooo,” I reasoned, “your entire business forecast is based on how many units of alcohol I consume?”

“Not just you,” corrected the landlord, “Old Tom’s in the book as well.”

I dropped the bombshell that Old Tom’s liver packed in three weeks ago.

“That’s an absolute tragedy,” sighed the publican, “and not just because he hadn’t paid his tab. He was paying for our holiday.

“Tom was one of those regulars who would spend all night in a corner drinking on his own – what we call in the trade an alcoholic. They’re a dying breed.

“In fact, Old Tom just has.” I confided to Colin: “The recycling people were so worried about the lack of bottles in our blue bin one of the council bigwigs rang me.” “What did he say?” asked Colin. “He asked if I knew about the new village hall being built in this parish. I said I did.”

“What did he say then?” demanded Colin.

“He asked if I knew that a large part of it would be made of glass. I said I did.”

“What did he say then?” demanded Colin.

“He asked if I knew I was the one providing the raw material and put the phone down.”