to say that I have never had a drop of booze touch my lips would be like, well, telling you that I have pinched the arse of the queen of england - complete bullshit. having said that however, I would like to embellish this post with my humble opinions on the matter of drinking… heavily.

there was a time when I used to serve in the Royal Air Force (worthy of its own post, be patient) and there were pretty much only two things to do “after hours”… go to the gym and work on the abs and gluts, or by using the strongest elbow, perch oneself at the very heavily subsidized, Air Force bar. thankfully, for the most part, I chose the former over the latter. where I am going with this, is thus - I watched as many of my compadres succumbed to the “amber nectar” (go sue me, ‘Fosters’) after a hard graft at the office - a way to reconcile oneself, profoundly reinforcing a place in this world - without actually reconciling. I knew booze, first hand to a “manageable” extent, and from watching my highly-polished belt-buckled barrack-mates, drinking themselves into a stupor known as, in my English retort, as fucking wankered. but who am I, you ask, to berate such a close knit social circle as my military kin. I agree. ‘each to his own’, was a phrase I soon became accustomed to… so began my experience with the ether known as alcohol.

you see, I was never much of a drinker prior to the military, not at all. the odd can of ’special brew’ with a group of very close friends, became the illicit drug that I wanted so much to steer clear of.

[tangent]

I thank my dear mother, whom I miss and love with the very fabric of my being, for keeping those apron strings taught, when I was a wee young chap.

[back on track]

as it seemed, I entered life as a semi-sensible young man with one mission - do well, be happy and make something of yourself - the three commandments I would learn would stand me in good stead. a staple, if you will. so where was I… ah yes, military…

[fast forward]

so I move to New York City with a vigor that is only comparable to Alexander The Great smacking the bottom of Asia - much to their disdain. I soon realize that my partner in life very much enjoyed the escapism of getting wasted. an almost quasi-acceptable state of mind here in the big fat apple that would envelope one in a joy far from facing one’s reality.

and so it began…

my first 3 years [here] were (and are still) very hazy, to say the least. for example, if someone said to me tomorrow, “so, what did you get up to during your primary tenure in the city?”, I would have to reply with an apparent (I’m sure) reluctance, “eh, you know, this and that”. truth be told, I don’t remember much significant detail about my first 3 years here, which makes me sad. from the years of 29 to 32, I find myself mentally and emotionally walking in a mist, and conversing my whereabouts in cryptic diction, to my own disbelief. sad. there was a time when the constant drinking was becoming such a pastime that I couldn’t differentiate normal living with being completely fucking drunk. sad. many weeks, and indeed months blended into one another, forming a kind of ‘play doh’ history of my life - a softly molded reality that I could feel between my fingers, yet I had no clue of the shapes that would result in my feigned efforts.

[fast forward]

and here I am, writing this blog, broken hearted by admitting my recent, and indeed reticent, life, thus far in New York. I hope to become a ‘better person’ - and by that I mean, becoming a person that I once was. a person that enjoyed meeting others, knowing others, helping others, focusing a life bettering myself - gym, cycling, museums, parks, movie theaters etcetera.

life. i love you. I don’t need a clouded existence. beer, you’re for weekends and birthdays.