Dinner with a drinker

Day Twenty Nine.

Last night presented one of the more challenging evenings of my near-month of sobriety. It wasn't as I would have expected; an "Oh My God - I NEED a drink" situation, but a stark confrontation with one source of my negative habit, as well as highlighting what I'm actually attempting to commit to here.

I went for dinner with a few friends just off of the Southbank in London. I was a little nervous, aware that there was a high chance the others would be drinking. Two of the attendees were old drinking buddies from school, who I haven't been in touch with in the last six months or so. One, who we'll call Guy, was a particularly notable player in some of the darker, more pathetic moments of my drinking career. I don't want to label him alcoholic because I feel it's a very objective and personal term - one only YOU can truly confirm within yourself based on your individual relationship with mental health and addiction. What I will admit is that Guy used to be a very, very heavy drinker.

The pair of us began working professionally at around the same time, in the same city, both in what are externally perceived to be fairly glamorous industries that often lend themselves to evening events brimming with free alcohol and 'alternative substances'. We would meet up regularly, usually on a random week night, and tag along to some party or launch, whichever of us had been invited to, and make good use of the free champagne. We would usually then detour via one of London's many gay clubs and complete the evening with one or both of us vomiting in a taxi or back at his place, before an hour or two of restless sleep.

I justified my recklessness - the committed drinking and hangovers at work, and meaningless sex - on the basis that there was someone out there, someone I knew (in the always smartly-presented shape of Guy), who was one step worse than me on the boozy ladder to alcoholism, yet still holding onto his job and functioning professionally and personally with what appeared to be relative ease. I suppose you never really know what someone else is going through. Like me, he'd ended up in hospital thanks to a particularly ugly run in with alcohol, which he now considers a Life Changing Event. Shortly afterwards he was advised by his employer to stop drinking and calm down, which he chose to ignore for another eight crazy months. Again, like me, he seriously suffers from "I'm more fun when I'm drunk" syndrome.

Around two years ago something seemed to click in his head and he suddenly leapt muscles first into health and fitness. This obsession replaced alcohol entirely, Guy seemingly unable to moderate/tolerate one alongside the other. He was still on hiatus from boozing when I last saw him, back in August. And so it was to my surprise when he tipsily arrived at the restaurant forty minutes late.

After the obligatory "how have you been?" shit, anecdotes of our drinking days began to surface. This lead to Guy talking about he defines memories as either before or after The Life Changing Incident that left him in hospital, all the while gently swilling his third margarita between forefinger and thumb. There was something very odd and vaguely sad in listening to him talk about how bad things had been when he was pissed all of the time, and then how boring he'd found himself during his years as a fitness fanatic, whilst watching him slur his words and tip more and more booze down his throat. A couple of hours into the evening he realised that I'd been sipping at an elderflower and grapefruit mocktail for the entirety, and voiced utter disgust with me. This was, of course, after he'd explained how hard he'd found keeping up with friends during his period of sobriety, the majority of his social life restricted to pubs and bars - as is the curse of our generation of lost partygoers. I wondered what he really thought about it all, hoping he'd gained a more moderate head atop of more experienced shoulders.

As we were settling the bill, my friend confronted the manager over an issue to do with his tequila. The complaint grew into an ugly scene where, despite Guy professing fear of being "that arsehole who complains", he really was being That Arsehole Who Complains. It reminded me of the clumsy way you slip past normal thought processes when you're drunk, misjudging tone and misreading signals, adding a bitter tinge to the close of what had been, up until then, a rather pleasant evening.

I woke up fresh and rested at 7.30am. I wonder whether Guy has a headache.

- UnderReCover