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The ritual of the after work pint has to remain asanctity.

I’m on my third beer. I’m being picked up from thepub in 15 minutes. I have about a quarter of my pint left. I’m relaxed andmulling over some words I’ve just jotted down about the pub as a sanctuary. Butthere’s a niggling in the back of my mind that it is making editing the wordsdifficult. A part of my brain is tugging me to the right; like an invisible ratunder my chef’s hat. You can squeeze in another in fifteen minutes, itwhispers.


I don’t move. I am content. But the thoughtdistracts me for a while. Once upon a time anything above the 7 minute mark wastime for another pint. An unnecessary one. A pint unsavoured and withoutpurpose. It was this way for 15 years and still that part of my brain considersit every single time.

Drinking until the clock hits zero was always myway.


"I Love Your Work."


Somebody in the group always had to be the most drunk in the room. Whether itwas a few friends ‘round as teenagers when the parents were away, or the pubquiz on a Tuesday night, or the nightclubs on a Saturday, there was always onein every group of friends that used it as an excuse to get uncontrollablyblottoed. In our group of friends, that person was always me.


From the moment that I could, of those first house parties at 15, I was chasingoblivion. Everybody in the room was drunk but I would always take it that bitfurther. Everybody chased the merriment whereas I craved the blackout.


It continued throughout my student years. Everybody was on the booze but I wasleft with the fewest funny stories; the sheer volume of drink would often leaveme incapacitated and with morning brain fog. I’d wake up with regrets at mylate immobility, yet every night out would follow a similar path. "Ilove your work" my housemate would jokingly say to me as I lined 8single vodka and cokes up at the bar, having deciphered that they worked out,through the Thursday night student offer, cheaper than four doubles.


There might be group rounds of shots but few were walking around clubs with abottle of house wine and a pint glass. Others were on it, as they say,but I was solitary in my attempt to fall completely off.


It continued through my mid-20s. The horror reel that is my personal Facebookmemories reveals the braggadocio status updates from the time. They record alife filled with “humorous“ tales of drink-fueled debauchery and little else.Future partners would ask me about that time tentatively; expecting a past ofnightclub Lothario exploits. The truth is that they were just evenings used tofocus my self-destructive energy. I wasn't waking up at stranger's homes butrather alone in open areas where I was lucky to retain all my possessions.


I would only stop when my body made me. Or those around me had the sense to. Mybrother once had the awareness to take a pint glass from me, filled with a shotof every spirit from the top shelf, at 6am during a pub lock-in. I had alreadybeen drinking for 12 hours. He was called a killjoy; ironic as that glass ofbooze may well have hospitalised me.


And I would have consumed the whole thing. I know that I would have.


Recalibration

This may read like the exploits of many a young person from my generation butthere was something different in my behaviour. It was purposefulself-destruction.

It would have potentially been helpful for me tofind something else as a lifestyle or as a hobby. As it was, my genuine lovefor tasting beer and visiting different types of pubs pulled me away fromoblivion. As much as social media aspects of beer and self-proclaimed bloggersare routinely mocked, that energy made me approach beer differently . It mademe focus on the positives without the need for pushing it that extra fewdrinks.


I've made no secret that writing about my struggles with depression, my suicidal thoughts and some of my issues from the past have probably kept mealive. Before I had no such outlet. It has never truly occurred to me that myprevious release was alcohol. It wasn't every day. It wasn't inhibiting myday-to-day life. But I was using it as both therapy and medication. Seeingalcohol purely through the beer lens helped me recalibrate.


Yet when I had those destructive thoughts again in 2015, I easily fell backinto the hole, only now I was in the bubble and could hide in plain sight. Fora time I could push it too far at industry events or evenings in the pub andwake up sprawled across my landing. "One more DIPA for the socials" Icould say whilst secretly hoping it'd be enough to knock myself out until themorning. That year, I threw up all over the toilets at Indy Man Beer Con andlost my glasses. Somehow it became an amusing anecdote.


I've thought about it more since my Dad passed away. I've tried writing aboutalcohol within this industry but I’ve always been holding something back. I'vebeen afraid that being truly honest will make people look at me differently.There are already too many voices talking scathingly of others "havingproblems" as I tried to address in the language that we use.


If I am to be honest, what will people think when they read my blog? Or listento the podcast? Will it now always be that they think I shouldn't be havinganything? If I'm out at a beer festival, will they see me with more judgmentaleyes?


Maybe it should be. Maybe I should be done with this. It is probably true thata decade long lifestyle prior to this blog has shortened my beer drinkingcareer. And my life in general. Other people I admire and like from beerplatforms are being told to cut back or stop. The owner of a bottle shop I oncefrequented has had to give up drinking for life. Others are down to the oddSaturday.


I try not to live in the real fear that it could be me next but rather tempermy own routine to increase longevity. The pub is my sanctuary. The three-pintbuzz is still my little piece of therapy. I will argue all day that it isn'tdamaging to most, but it just might be for me. The damage may already be done.



I'll continue to be a man of the pub for as long as I can. My mind isn't inperfect health and the pub as a physical building helps. It does as much toheal me as a long walk in the country with my pup. The environment. The idea ofgoing somewhere new. The plan to go to an old favourite.



But still I have to temper myself as my mind isconditioned to self sabotage. The after work pub visits are more infrequent.The pints are mostly below 5%. I don’t go to any social events if I know mymind is in the wrong place. And the “squeezing in” of unnecessary extras isover. Little Remy wins no longer.



If we can't open up within this industry then whereelse can we? We are not aware enough and we are certainly not kind enough. Thedays of chasing oblivion may be gone but the ideologies are still chasing me. Ihave to hope they don’t catch up.


I think that this post became this after watching this excellent BBC documentary about Matt Willis' struggles with addiction. Certainly the title is stolen from something he says in it. Well worth a watch.



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