There Is No Such Thing As a Former Alcoholic.

A response to Alcohol-free January: Where can you go to avoid people drinking?

I recently watched Alistair Campbell (the misanthropic puppet-master of the whole New Labour carry-on as opposed to the front-man of UB40) on television discussing his battle with alcoholism. While I respect his efforts in the eternal struggle against drinking too much fermented liquid (what a ridiculous thing to do - all this destruction for a wee bit of ethanol) it is irresponsible and frankly incorrect for Campbell or others to refer to him as a 'former alcoholic'. Which did occur on this program. Alcoholism has no cure. I am an alcoholic but I am currently sober and would describe myself as 'in recovery'. Descent into the darkest days of my alcohol abuse is always just around the corner. I am in a state of constant vigilance to stay away from alcohol in any forms. There is no cure for alcoholism at this moment of time. Or believe me, I would have found it. I repeat myself to emphasise this point. In the 18 months since I quit drinking 'for good' I have lapsed three times and I was immediately plunged back into the despair and chaos by these three events. I have no memory of what happened or what triggered me to drink. 'Tis the nature of this cruel and baffling illness.That's a total of five days but a hell of a lot longer to clear up the pieces.

Literally in terms of my glass door.

It is hard to deal with the culture of drinking in this country and regretfully I have had to cut friends and situations out of my life that I felt could distract me from my continual efforts to stay sober. I have also cut down my visits to see live music in pubs that I used to frequent if I think there is chance I may feel the urge to drink which is always lurking in the shadows. As a wonderful therapist - one of several to whom I will be eternally grateful - told me "if you spend your time in a barber shop, sooner or later you will get a haircut".

There is a reason one of the key mantras of the wonderful Alcoholics Anonymous movement/organisation is 'Just For Today'. Today I didn't pass out, vomit, soil myself, smash through my plate glass front door, fall out of a tree and break my pelvis, I wasn't taken by ambulance to hospital after having a seizure from withdrawal and then admit myself to rehab. All things that did happen when I was drinking and will happen again if I let my guard down for even a moment. That includes describing oneself as a 'former alcoholic'. I will never be free of this disease - as it is now described in the DSM-IV - I just manage it. My way is by total abstinence and I would encourage others to follow this path. Just For Today. I realise I have meandered down a tangent here. To answer those questions at the end of the article, yes, I have found it difficult to avoid drink. That's never going away as long-serving members of my home group seem to almost relish informing me. But I have an extraordinary amount of free time previously spent drinking to put my broken life back together. There's no more scrabbling for loose change down the back of the sofa or cashing in my measly collection of low-denomination coins to buy a bottle of disgusting gut rot cider. Previously I 'needed' it in order to take the shakes away and calm down my squawking brain from telling me how shit I am and what a fuck-up I've become. The money I have saved helps me afford trips to see friends who live far away, finish a TEFL college course and am currently taking advanced guitar lessons (to relearn the theory and eliminate the bad habits I've picked up in recent years). I am a member of a creative writing group and take art classes. No alcohol in those places. I have also picked up my cricket 'career' again. No-one cares that my tipple of choice after a game is fresh orange and soda water. I'm writing songs again as well as words for my own pleasure as opposed to work (I am a recreational linguist). All of these things I intended to do while I was drinking but never got round to. As I was generally drunk.

Visits to the cinema and bowling are examples of social activities that I used to drink at but now enjoy sober. You'd be surprised how many cans of packaged pre-mixed gin and tonics you can sneak into a showing of the Sex and The City. It's eight.

In summary, recovery is out there if you want it badly enough and are willing to rethink your lifestyle and behaviours drastically. To return to my original point. it is my belief (and countless others') there is no such thing as a former alcoholic. it is a ticking time-bomb which has no convenient digital display counting down to the potential explosion. It could literally go off at any moment in time unless one is aware of its existence. And the fallout will resemble a personal Three Mile Island. This shit doesn't go away on its own, its's fucking hard graft.

To paraphrase Craig Ferguson, who became an inspiration to me around the time I was desperately trying to get sober for a few months to prepare for my admission to rehab (I didn't want to go there still drinking),"The battle is over. You lost''. But the war isn't over. Far from it.

Thanks for reading.

Alex - An alcoholic. Sober today. We'll see what happens tomorrow.

Holland has no Speed Bumps.

Rehab is going very well. I have very little time for recreational writing though. I have had some fantastic mail. Thanks to everyone who has sent kind words and cards. I have enjoyed each one but I simply haven't had time to get back to everyone personally. Especially as when I go to compose a short note I get carried away and end up in writing a four or five page mini-epic. So I thought I'd pop some thoughts down here for those who haven't received anything personal yet.

To begin with this is a very hard and intensive program but, ultimately, I have had a hard and intensive drinking and drug-taking career. And I plan on having a hell of a life after this process is over. Right from the first day I've been woken up at 6:45am by someone ringing a handbell right outside my bedroom door. This is about as pleasant as it sounds. Then I have to go and attend 'meditation' at 7:30am. It's basically some time to reflect on why we're here and what's on that day - and a few 'prayers'. Don't freak out-it is not a religious program (as they tell us to say). Breakfast follows, which is my least favourite aspect of this whole affair. I sort of expected bacon and eggs to be available at some point but, alas, no. Cheese and ham do not please me - not for breakfast. Lectures and group therapy make up the rest of the morning. My group therapist was a fellow, an ex-professional cricketer, who just happens to be the brother of  a quite formidable cricketer who has won the Cricket World Cup. Very interesting to say the least. Afternoon, for the previous six weeks has been a variety of events and programmes that I have been opting out of and going to have a proper sleep, three hours on average. I am incapable of 'napping'.

Cheese and ham and bread for breakfast does seem to please Dutch people which brings me nicely to the next main point. The vast majority of people here are from the Netherlands. This was strange at first but now I can't really imagine any other way this could be - I was also prepared for it by my good friend Lois Nicol. I have tried to get to the bottom of why this occurs here to no satisfactory outcome. I asked a staff member and she said "Well, we have lots of people from all over the world here, German, American..." - "Yes, but it can't have escaped your attention that around 90% of people here are Dutch?" "I don't really know the reason...". I was then told that Castle Craig have a administrative centre in Holland. Yes, but what came first, I asked. "I'm not sure". A tiny bit infuriating. The Dutch are not infuriating in fact they are very nice as one might expect. And yes, I am just saying that in case they read this. But I DO MEAN IT. As of today I am the only English person here. That's out of around 70. A smattering of Scotch people (they love being called Scotch I've learned) and the odd American. Interesting mix to say the least.

What's fascinating about the Dutch is that I have noticed they react favourably and suprisingly to inclines of any sort. I had a discussion with one chap where he was telling about a mountain he'd walked up that day, I corrected him "That's a hill, not a mountain." - "No that mountain, over there" he points. "Hill, mountain, whatever.." he continued. It's a fucking hill.
I am also pretty sure they don't have speedbumps in 'that there' Holland as they seem inordinately impressed by the existence of them here. I also sometimes have to translate food items into English. Most of the time this is straightforward. "Yeah, that's a sausage roll" "Ah, we call it saucizjenbroodjes". That makes sense. However, having to translate and explain Rice Krispie Squares was weird.There's really no other to describe and simplify the concept.

I have completed the first six weeks of treatment classified as Primary Care in the Intensive Treatment Unit. This meant I was mainly busy and had very little time for other things. Sleep was fairly important in my spare time. Now I've moved down to the Extended Care Unit. I share a house with 10+ guys. It's really good for me, so far. I was initially in a smaller house of five guys but I was sharing a room with a Dutchman. Horrific. Mainly for him I must admit. Sorry 'M'. There is a larger living room here which keeps me social while I do my homework and letter writing and the like. Or as I do this, right now. There's a lot more freedom here, essentially we are finished scheduled activity at 10:30am. Which leaves a fairly wide scope for arranging your work and leisure activities. Now I can pretty much sleep whenever I want I am choosing not to. It's a blast.

Right. I am holding up (predominantly Dutch) traffic on the information superhighway so this is all I can manage right now. I'm sure I will have more fascinating information to follow.

The Benwell Project - The Cumberland Arms - Friday March 18th

The long awaited live Newcastle debut of The Benwell Project was finally here. A palpable sense of excitement was present in the air of a packed out Cumberland Arms. Would the much anticipated gig live up the considerable hype? We all hoped so.

The band opened with the anthemic 'Down The River' which had an early Biffy Clyro feel to it.This comparison, while possibly reductive, stuck with me throughout much of the gig. Some of this was undoubtedly down to lead singer Ben Fitzgerald's Scottish brogue but the similarity can be heard in several songs especially the slow burner 'Nothing More (Dancing)'. The band's songs (self-penned) encompass a variety of styles including a twisted love note to the much maligned area of Newcastle that gives the group their name and talks of 'broken glass in the flowerbeds' and 'bars on the windows' but still comes across strangely fond. There is a sadness lurking behind the confident front of the band and this is present in the lyrics and the distinctive tone of the lap-steel, played with admirable prowess by Neil McMahon. Who also adds fiddle to a number of tracks with the same ability. The band's skill in their chosen instruments shines through – testament to their high level of dedication in this field. Seth Tinsley (double bass) and Ally Stewart (drums) give the songs a driving groove that had this crowd head-nodding and foot-tapping with the best of them. The instrumentation is completed by Mark Bruce on acoustic guitar adding rhythm to the blues while complementing Fitzgerald's vocal with his own lilting tones. All the band (excepting McMahon I think) contribute backing vocals which results in some interesting harmonies. All of this assists in adding a different side which may well, in the future, lift the group to a higher profile and more recognition. Certainly when listening to 'The Anti Prayer' I was reminded of the second album Kings of Leon with it's almost gospel type feel – ironic given the title.

In summary I think I can speak for the rest of the audience when I say the hype was fulfilled to some extent and we are all eager for further gigs from the lads. Watch this space. The Benwell Project have landed.

Ryan Spendlove (new album)

Ryan Spendlove

While not native to Newcastle and her environs Mr Spendlove is a dyed in the wool Northerner and this is apparent on listening, I enjoy it when people retain some semblance of their accent with which to sing and tell their stories. It gives a gravitas and an identity that many discard. His debut album is about to land and his gentle melodies and heartfelt storytelling have a universal appeal whether Northern or not.! His voice reflects a certain mournfulness which imbues the songs with real feeling and is also fairly easy on the ear. Keep an eye on this lad and his debut album ‘Fable’.

Album available 5th April on Candyrat Records.

"Ex-Blueskins frontman Ryan Spendlove brought the evening to a close with some spellbinding, ass kicking blues, and slide guitar playing that was second to none." - YORK EVENING PRESS (Dec 2009)

for www.hohound.co.uk

The Dreamers (2003)

The Dreamers (2003)

Director Bernardo Bertolucci

“The first time I saw a movie at the cinématèque française I thought, "Only the French... only the French would house a cinema inside a palace."

The film takes place against the backdrop of the 1968 Paris student riots which were part of the widespread general discontent and action of the May period of that year including the largest general strike in French history. Our protagonist and narrator of the piece is Matthew (played by Michael Pitt), a conservatively educated modest young man who is resident in Paris to further his studies in the French culture and language. Matthew begins the film as an outsider, a loner who seeks solace and an escape from his mundane life in the city through his love of film, specifically that of classical and New Wave cinema.

Matthew sustains and feeds his obsession with film at the Cinematheque Francaise – which becomes a focal point for expression of the students’ dissatisfaction when Henri Langlois a pioneer of film preservation is relieved of his post. Matthew finds himself f caught up in a protest against this turn of events and encounters a young French woman (Eva Green) who, at first, he believes, has chained herself to the gates of the Cinema. When he asks her why has performed this act of defiance she reveals it is an illusion and she has merely put her hands through the chains. She then introduces him to her brother Theo.

The three spend the evening with each other and then find themselves caught up in the protests as they are chased by the police through the rainy streets of Paris. Matthew’s narration indicates that he has ‘fallen in love with them’ during this adventure. They then invite him into their world, beginning with dinner with their parents, one of which, their father, is a renowned poet. This first glimpse into their home life shows a little of the close, playful, almost sexual interaction with one another.

Isabella and Theo invite Matthew to stay with them in their family home while their parents are away. Together the trio explore Paris and each other, including a sprint through the Louvre in an effort to beat the time featured in French film Bande a Part. When they succeed Isabella and Theo chant “We accept him, one of us”. Onwards from this declaration Matthew becomes drawn into their intense and seemingly romantic private world. As Matthew is drawn into their sexualised intimate situation the three of them drift further and further from the outside events and the unrest taking place without them on the streets of Paris.

As the three of them spend more time in isolation Matthew witnesses the sexualised aspect of the siblings relationship. Isabella forces Theo to masturbate in front of her and Matthew. Later while the group enjoy a bath together Matthew takes Isabella’s virginity, this assures us, the audience, that Isabella and Theo’s relationship has not been fully incestuous. This consummation of Matthew and Isabella’s physical relationship brings the rising sexuality between the trio to a forefront.

This summer of escapism and exploration is coming to a conclusion of sorts. The three run out of money and when the sibling’s parents return to find the trio naked and entwined together their mother silently leaves them a cheque and removes herself from the scene. As Isabella realises the somewhat shameful relationship has been uncovered by her mother she begins to poison the sleeping boys and herself with natural gas. She and they are disturbed by a broken window and we are catapulted back out into the streets where a full scale riot against the police is taking place. Matthew tries to stop Theo from taking violent action against the police and he kisses both Theo and Isabella attempting to convince them to remain with him, to no avail. As he walks away we are forced to question just who the ‘Dreamers’ of the films title are. Of Matthew, Theo and Isabella, just which of them is it who are content to remain in a sheltered, idealised version of reality.

“A revolution isn't a gala dinner. It cannot be created like a book, a drawing or a tapestry. It cannot unfold with such elegance, tranquility and delicacy. Or such sweetness, affability. courtesy, restraint and generosity. A revolution is an uprising, a violent act by which one class overthrows another.”

Getting up at 8am is tiring.

That's why I get up at 9. Sometimes.

• I have this thing when I must read the paper everyday - not just the Metro (I made a new rule that I have to read every word in the Metro or it doesn't count - I especially love Amy Rudd's art reviews) but the real paper...that means The Guardian. Which reminds me, watch this Russell Howard clip on newspapers. Anyway 'cause I'm poor and incapable of not spending all my cash in a 48 hour wine, crisps and sweets bender straight after payday I read it online these days. The Guardian lists the five 'most viewed' stories each day and last week, after the Spanish runway accident which killed 153 people, you might expect that tragedy of human suffering to claim top spot, yes? Obviously not. It came a poor second to...yeah, you guessed it: Mikael Silvestre - a Man Utd reserve central defender, is moving to Arsenal. What a fucking disgrace The Guardian readership is. I know which article I read, anyway.

• Mikael Silvestre's move to Arsenal is said to only be costing £750,000. That is reasonable.
  

• When people make groups on Facebook about hanging pederasts and such like, why don't they take time to check spellings, punctuation etc. I understand people feel like they must take action to stop cases of abuse, gun crime, stabbings. And I also understand why they then don't take any tangible action but merely set up a hate-spewing collection of impotent text-based rage that will never, ever achieve anything (except maybe one of the many groups about making Jeremy Clarkson Prime Minister, that might work - it did, at least, earn a response from No. 10). But seriously, just take a second and check what you've written actually qualifies as English words.

• A couple of my favourite things are; crisps, wine, Oreos and blonde girls. However, possibly my favouritest thing in the world is people who comment on other people's news stories on the Internet. I'm talking about those little comments at the bottom of real articles written by professional journalists. Like on The Guardian's Comment is Free and the BBC's Have Your Say. Or, the very cess-pit of the genre, those who start 'flame wars' below Youtube videos. In any event Speak Your Branes collects the truly mental comments in one place, for our amusement. Highlights today include "Generally speaking, nowadays I wouldn’t trust men to discipline small young child unchecked, while considering that many men are now on or dealing in drugs." Mind you I only found that reactionary gibberish amusing because I'm so fucked on Ketamine.
  

• Most laughable lyric of the week comes to us from the sublime James Morrison.

"When I'm not sure of my priorities
When I'm not sure of who I'm meant to be"

• I'll let the faux philosophical posturing pass for now. It's the use of the word 'priorities' that I warm to. I love that the girl (or boy...I'm not racist) who is the subject of this heartfelt tribute helps poor James out with his priorities. I hope he also receives assistance with time management, filing and other organisational tasks.
  

• Choice lyric for me is from those nice Black Kids . They can have two actually but they're from the same song.

"I say baby, you say bump it
All you wanna hear is Gabriel’s trumpet"
and
"Sure, I know it’s apocalypse
But can’t it wait til I kiss your lips?"

• The first because of it's ridiculous, yet admirable, quest for the rhyme. The second deserves it because I am really scared about the coming apocalypse (be it Islam or Russia related ) but I agree, it'll all be fine if I can just get off with someone.

What I think about things that don't matter.

Welcome to my new regular web-based update. Fuck the word 'blog. And if you do use it make sure it has that apostrophe denoting the missing letters. I assume everyone also writes 'bus, 'phone and fax'. That is if anyone sends facsimiles these days. Maybe they'll come back and be all cool. Like the other day I remembered I used to have a pager and thought would be a class thing to bring back. You can receive texts and messages from 'phones but can't respond to them. Class.

The new format of this page will be tiny little thoughts on things I read in the paper or crass judgments on things that someone funnier, cleverer and more intelligent than I wrote or did.

Such as.....

• The Courteeners are shit aren't they? Dead shit.

• Read this thing about some village in Tibet who have a real live living goddess that they choose out of available, eligible three year old girls. The criteria for the post of living representation of a deity is thus: they must have a voice ''as soft and clear as a duck's'' - yes, a duck's. I have spent, like everyone, so many hours listening to sweet ducksong melody. Like angels they are. Angels playing a kazoo. With gravel in their mouth. Next up is "the body of a Banyan tree and the chest of a lion". This is mental. I've seen a Banyan tree up close and everything. It consists of upwards of twenty dangling tree roots trailing down to the dirt. So that's odd. Now, the chest of a lion. Hmmm....so this kid, this god-like human must have many, many limbs reaching to the ground and a hairy chest. May I put forward a really big spider? I also found out that her parents aren’t allowed to tell her off. Well she is God. Or something. Anyway that's nowt, neither were mine. Well, me mam wasn't. That’s why I’m such a dick. I’m reminded of Russell Brand's comment when recollecting my mam's attitude towards my life's achievements and, more often failures and misdemeanours, he stated "my mum thinks I'm a brilliant swimmer because I've never drowned". Quite. My mum feels this way even though I have very nearly drowned. Twice.

• So...apparently the Olympics have been mad good. Loads of winning and everything for Team GB (not my gay name for them but the telly's - I call them 'the runners and that'). Best medal haul for a million years. Sandwiched, as they are between the A Level and GCSE results I'm afraid I must voice the concern that is on the minds of an otherwise proud nation. Are the Olympics getting easier? Definitely. In my day you had to run 130 metres to be fastest man alive. And that's with bananas being rationed. We didn't have rowing either. We had WWF and the Chuckle Brothers. No medals for that, I tell you.
  

• New Teddy Thompson album. It's fucking mint.

• Bloc Party were on the radio and sounded like such a bunch of melodramatic, over-serious cuntwipes that I was going to stop using the words 'bloc' and 'party' as a kind of odd linguistic protest. But then they were asked how they met. One of them - I don't know their stupid names, probably Luke, Stefan and Guillame if I were to guess - said "We met Stefan when he was pilled of his face at Leeds festival". So now they're alright. And I don't even ever use the word 'bloc' anyway.
  

• This isn't very funny right, but still it warrants a mention. There was a story in the Daily Mail about a fella stabbing up a fella to death in South Africa. Nothing too different there eh? But wait on. Apparently this murderous chap was partial to a bit of the old Slipknot. Case closed then. Hanging's too good for the mask-wearing bastards who style themselves as a pioneering band in the New Wave of American Heavy Metal. Remember when Slipknot killed that schoolkid in South Africa with a Samurai sword? I bet that's what he was copying. Or...he lives in one of the most tempestuous, murderous of all the developed countries that has ever been in existence. You decide.

• There was a cat with four ears in the papers today. What pisses me off though is that it looked quite old. I would've wanted to know about this lovely little freak as soon as it was born. It should have been on Reuters news update - "Freak cat born (but don't talk about it...it'll hear you)".

• The new Keane track is honestly a great bit of music. And I hate Keane. But it sound likes Duran Duran mixed with someone good. I reckon it sounds a bit like Ultra, but not enough people got into Ultra. Look them up. Classic electronic pop.

• Re: the above statement. Just to clarify...Keane are still utter cunts (see below).
  

• Oh I decided I would have a regular feature. It's going to be..."Lyrics I like - Lyrics that are shit". Catchy eh?

• Worst lyric of the week....The aforementioned losers Keane;
• "I fashioned you from jewels and stone
  I made you in the image of myself"
• This was odd to me because I was certain Tom out of Keane was fashioned out of Brie and foie gras.
  

• I just spent way too much time finding out whether Brie should be capitalised. It should though. But foie gras is not.

• Belting lyric of the week is an easy award. Step forward...Mystery Jets
  
• "Yes, hideaway if you must
  But how can you put your trust
  In a man who always sleeps in his clothes?"

Goodnight everyone. I love you all.