They’re troublesome, but from time to time I suffer fits of moral fortitude, in which I attempt to edify myself. You’ll recognise the form — killing the booze, giving the gym another go, sleeping, that sort of thing. You might call these drying-out runs a case of the Januarys, though they come for me more often than that, even if few last an entire month. Some don’t survive a lunchtime. But I try, which isn’t really the important thing, but sometimes feels like it is.
On one such run I was invited to a lock-in and accepted on the grounds of it being a challenge, which I suspect speaks to a masochistic streak. This pub doesn’t demean itself by pulling pints that don’t get people pissed, so I bought along a pack of Brewdog’s Punk AF hurriedly hoicked from the shelf. AF here stands for alcohol-free, even if the wily sorts at the brewery nod and wink otherwise. Those rascals.
