Everyone needs a hobby, and for 40 years mine was booze. I was 17 when I drank enough to throw up for the first time, and 57 when I stopped. In between I spent most nights, and thousands of lunchtimes and afternoons, with at least a gentle buzz on. One cheeky pint would turn into three, four, a binge. I blacked out. I had fumbling, regrettable sex. I vomited out of cars and on to lawns. I drank wine at 50p a bottle and £15 a glass – and a sea of lager, lager, lager. There was vodka flavoured with everything, from raspberries to rhubarb and bacon, plus gin and armagnac and amaretto and tequila and eggnog and crème de menthe and Baileys and sherry and blue curaçao and bourbon and cider and Kahlúa.
Some evenings I would laugh and laugh and laugh; other times drinking felt more like a grim duty.
