I wrote this one year ago, the day after I gave up alcohol.

Hey, old pal, you will be happy to know I’m writing this from a bar

hearing the warm murmur of conversation and the gentle clink of

glasses, while the convivial pop of a cork punctuates the sports

The tea in my cup, however, would not impress you, and for far

different reasons that it doesn’t impress me, it having a tannic overtone

of soggy tobacco leaves.

No, for you, the tea is a wasted opportunity. A wasted opportunity, on

my part, to wander down that well worn garden path with you. The path

with the signposts amongst the weeds saying “Good Times!”, “Life and

Soul of the Party”, “This Way For Jokes”, “Real Men Drink Beer!” etc.

How many times have we walked that path together? How Many

times? I did the maths….maybe four thousand …maybe five? Many,

many, many times. It’s no wonder we seem so close, two ice cubes in

But there’sa problem. I’ve been looking at those signs, for the first

time really. Listening to the stories you tell me. And the problem is that

the path leads to lots of places the signs don’t mention. The more I

think about it the more I wonder how often we ended up

where the signs suggested. Sometimes we’d start there but we’d

quickly move on, wouldn’t we?

So, 33 years after we first met I’ve been thinking about this path of

yours and, old pal, a darker, meaner, more sordid route emerges.

Now I want to be fair, to us both. So I’ve looked at this both ways to get

a fair measure of how things have been between us. On one side of the

balance I put all those great nights out; the wonderful long lunches; the

rowdy but fun ski chalet; the deep and meaningful conversation with

close friends; the late night solving of the world’s problems. Some good

stuff here for sure. Slainte!

Now on the other side I put all the thousands of thumping, squinting

hangovers; the good conversations turned to argument; the ‘off-piste’

late night chasers; the full frontal spittle speckled face-to-face offs; the

drunken tussle over a scared, sick child; the fear my wife had for my

safety when I didn’t come home until dawn; the fog of being; lost

memories of times with my wife and family; the lost intimacy of missed

good night kisses. The love damaged or even lost.

Not a great balance really, not a balance at all.

Look mate, you can see where this is going and I haven’t even started

on the effect our ‘connection’ has had on my career, friendships and

let’s not mention health.

So even though things have usually felt pretty good between us, old

buddy, it’s just not true. Yes we’ve always seemed close, everyone said

so. And, in fairness, we got pretty crafty there with those boutique beer

offerings. And, of course, the delicate representations of the fermented

grape have provided creeping cover for our increasingly insidious

symbiosis. But, matey, there’s nothing good about a fine wine chased fast

to the bottom of the glass.

Let me get to the point. As you know, after the last time we passed out in

public (the ‘old friends bond best over drinks’ path that night I believe?)

and I terrified my wife, I decided to moderate things between us.

You were, initially, quite cooperative and I thought we were getting

somewhere. But you had a plan and, my fault entirely, I opened an ear to

hear it, “You see, you’re fine now, you’ve proven your point, you can

drink like normal people!” And slowly we broadened the scope of my

moderation, bit by bit, drink by drink, excuse by excuse (“Tough day in the

trenches old chap!”) And your supporting voice cheersed me off the

wagon old pal until I was back in the ditch once again, as dirty as ever.

But, you see, that’s just not what good friends do to each other. I see

now you are not my friend. You never were. So this is it mate – we stop

here. I won’t say sorry, I know you’ll be fine, I see plenty of your other

‘friends’ sitting around me here.

And I will be much finer without you.