I’ll Have A Pint Of Diet Coke Please…’

Roughly two years and seven months ago (I tend to say three years in conversation for dramatic effect) I stopped drinking for no particular reason. I wasn’t an alcoholic, I wasn’t suffering from any illness, and I was only twenty-one years old. It wasn’t even a gradual process. One minute I was drinking with the lads, the next I was quietly sipping on a diet Coke. I don’t recall making a vow to give up. I just stopped. Don’t get me wrong- I enjoyed alcohol in excessive amounts like any other young male, never really experimenting with class A’s and keeping the class C’s to a minimum. Sitting around giggling at Nickelodeon all day never held the excitement or glamour of an evenings drinking. The pre-taxi gathering at a friend’s house, the visit to the local pound-a-pint meat market and the morning-after ritual of piecing together the forgotten parts of the evening’s events, naming and shaming, or boasting and bragging about our adventures. Prior to university I even attained the dubious honour of a ‘pisshead of the year’ award at our sixth-form ball.

And that’s where the problem lies. I’ve never been much of a rebel. I don’t like being told what to do, but I rarely speak back. I’ll slate Starbucks, Nike and McDonalds for their multi-national villainy, and then tuck into a value meal and double tall latte the following day. But little by little, my reputation as a comedy pisshead grew. Initially I revelled in it- intentionally drinking to excess, mixing tequila with lager, falling over in clubs, making lewd remarks with immunity (I was drunk- I didn’t mean it…) and generally enjoying my relationship with the booze. I was never an aggressive drinker. I enjoyed myself. I stayed out of trouble, and experienced a number of minor misadventures with my newfound friend- eating to excess, meeting new people, and in one infamous episode, waking up in a graveyard.

I was expected to get drunk at social events, and I wasn’t going to let them down. I didn’t even drink more than anyone else in my social group. It’s just my drunkenness was more visible, and I was willing to pander to my audience. As a teenager, being renowned for your heavy drinking seemed cool. I wasn’t much of a sportsman, and lacked a forceful personality. Drinking made me a minor celebrity amongst my peer-group. After turning twenty, an old acquaintance from school introduced me to one of his mates with "This is Gary, he’s a complete pisshead." The penny dropped. I’d become entirely predictable. From the second I entered a party, people knew exactly what I was going to do- get slaughtered. I hated the notion that everybody within my social circle, even people I loathed, had me pigeonholed as a comedy drunkard. Celebrities like Ollie, Keith and Ozzie had incredible adventures whilst drunk that made superb anecdotes. I’d just fallen asleep a few times, and slurred a lot. Social drinking had been a big part of my life for six years, and I felt I’d changed a lot within that timeframe. I no longer needed Dutch courage, and though some of my happiest memories remain hazily based around drunken evenings and all-dayers, it was time to go it alone.

Initially my immediate teetotal conversion created shockwaves amongst my peers. I never made a point of telling anybody I’d stopped drinking, but in the pub there was no escape. I had to admit my decision. Comical allegations of homosexuality and a conversion to Christianity were rife, and it was treated as a fad. Even I thought I’d relent- eventually. But I also knew that if I drunk again, Gary the predictable pisshead would return. It was hard work. Virtually everybody I knew drank socially. I’ve got some Muslim friends who have never touched a drop, but they had faith as their excuse. What was mine? Initially, evenings out were nightmarish. The caffeine in my pint of Coke and the nicotine rush of the occasional cigarette were no substitute for alcohol. I was uncomfortable- I had nothing to say to anyone, and felt self-conscious. The high street on a Saturday night seemed a more oppressive, volatile place, and I couldn’t flail my arms around on the dance floor without embarrassment.

Time passed, months became years, and my abstinence continued. I was intent on never touching a drop again, and my personal mission began to border on an obsession. If I accidentally took a swig from a JD and coke, why would it be such a big deal? After all, it wasn’t as if I’d been a raging alcoholic who’d vanish for a week on a seven-day binge after one drop. I realised I was taking things a little too far when I found myself worrying about the alcohol content of a brandy snap one Christmas day. I felt (and still feel) a sense of moral superiority over the drinking hordes- why exercise? I don’t drink! I became increasingly amused by the drunken behaviour of my friends. I was the one who could diffuse volatile situations, because I was sober. I could be trusted to supervise, and recall the evening’s events with clarity the following day. I learnt who was a ‘good’ drunk and who was a ‘bad’ drunk. Little by little I felt that my personality was strengthening.

Fast forward to the present day. I’m proud of my teetotal status. Scowls turned to shrugs, my bank balance grew, and I feel healthier than ever before (did I mention the sense of moral superiority?) but I still get asked… why? I must’ve answered the question at least a thousand times. The truth is never exciting enough, so I’ve told plenty of lies- I was an alcoholic, I’ve got a rare illness, I’m allergic to booze. I told one girl that I woke up next to a dead prostitute after an all night binge. Some people patronise me with congratulations, and others feel the need to confess their guilt at excessive drinking. "Yeah, I’ve been thinking about giving up myself" they slur, as if I were some anti-alcohol evangelist. As if I care. Whatever the reaction, be it bemusement, fascination or irritation, it makes for a decent talking point. I’m still a novelty, but I’d rather be known as ‘the freak who gave up booze’ than a pisshead. I’ve been given a new label, but this one doesn’t involve blackouts, hangovers and bedwetting. A few years ago I would’ve sneered at anybody who dared to claim that they don’t require alcohol to have a good time. They’re right, even though I still can’t dance without it…