It’s January 2015 and I’m celebrating my birthday alone in a Holborn boozer.
13 pints later and I’m in an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in Tottenham where everyone seems to be enslaved not so much by alcohol but their
own fear of their worst mental conception of themselves.
Everyone is praying to God like the drowning pray for land and it seems to be all over betting slips and not moral ineptitude or property prices.
I am an alcoholic. I am unable to deal with the sheer tedium of my thoughts during any given week so I resort to setting my brain back 30,000 years of evolutionary progress through lager or pilsner. You can sell me any brand but inside I’m always firefighting. Anything to douse the flames of the old anxiety and self awareness. Anything to just be myself without the weight of lucid scrutiny. Dull, giddy or asleep. I’ll select any or all 3.
Why I am talking about this?
I released a book in November 2014 where I alluded to my own alcoholism so I’m just talking about it in a way I’m happy with.
I love reading about addiction as it gives me some understanding on the topic and I’m not forced to accept cult nonsense, Bible readings or shitty polystyrene cups. I want science and an understanding that comes through conversations not covens.
I don’t want to be an alcoholic and I just want to find myself on some level beyond that tired old macho shit.
That tired old macho shit leads to nothing but a new morning and an emergency bucket at your arse.