Alternative Hell and The Final Countdown

Next year, instead of doing the dryathlon, I’ve decided to get myself sponsored to spend a weekend locked in a remote cottage with Katie Hopkins, Nigel Farage, Piers Morgan and the ghost of Jimmy Saville. There’ll be a television, but it will only show grand prix, reality TV, party political broadcasts by UKIP and the Tories, and soaps. There will be no books. A radio will play Rebecca Black on a continuous loop. I’m fairly sure it’ll be easier than this.

Nah, it’s actually getting a lot better. With just a week to go, I know I’ll do it now. I think it’s because the viruses/infections are finally showing signs of leaving me alone, so I’m able to get back to zumba and yoga and generally feel less miserable.

I had my first proper test last week when I went to a pub quiz and left as sober as I arrived. That has never happened before. Still had a good night, still had a laugh with friends, still won the quiz, so alcohol is not necessary, just pleasant. It’s good to know that.

January is a tough month to do something like this. There’s the after-festive-season dip in mood, the weather, the seemingly endless dark, dreich days. Money is tight because of over-spending at Christmas, spring and summer feel a very long way away. I think February would be better – mainly because it’s a shorter month, obviously.

I have to say, though, if I had just decided to try this for no reason, no cause, I know I would have failed. It would have been too easy on one of those miserable days to just say, ‘Sod it – I’ll try again another month.' Knowing that people had donated, knowing that it was for such a good cause, knowing that I wouldn’t just be failing myself is what has kept me going.

A huge thank you, once again, to those of you who have sponsored me. I set my target at £100, I’ve already raise £170. Fantastic and genuinely does make it more than worthwhile.

If you’d like to add to that total, here’s the link: https://www.justgiving.com/Karen-Jones-dryathlete2015/

The Worst Party Ever

Fourteen days into the Dryathlon and I am now dreaming about wine. To be more specific, Cava.

I was at a party, being very good, drinking Schloer (that word should be said in a different funny accent every time it is uttered – that’s a rule) when a friend from salsa (I’m talking about you, Raj) offered to top up my glass. She took the glass away, gave it back to me, I took a few sips, realised it was Cava and said, ‘No, no, I can’t drink this – I’m doing the Dryathlon.’ She laughed and said, ‘Ha, got you! Now you have to start all over again. This isn’t day fourteen, it’s back to day one.’ Then she cackled some proper witchy evil cackling. Everyone at the party joined in, pointing and laughing, then they all raised their alcohol-filled glasses and shouted, ‘CHEERS!’

I woke up convinced it was real, that I genuinely had thirty one days of hell to go. But, no, just an evil dream.

I am finding the challenge more difficult than I thought I would. I was sure I’d be feeling all sorts of health benefits, especially where sleep is concerned, and that I’d have more energy and be feeling fresher and brighter. Unfortunately, the opposite has been true. But I think that’s because I’m still fighting this virus or infection – whatever the hell it is – that started on January 1st, so am still feeling a bit crap in general.

At the moment, the only benefit is financial, which is great, but I could do with a sudden surge of health to keep me on track and take away the temptation to cheat and pay the forfeit. It really is hard.

Of course, then I stop and think, ‘I’m whining about not having a drink. The people who have cancer – the whole fundraising point to this thing - are having ever so slightly worse fun than me and they don’t get to choose when it ends, you know?’ And then I shut up, drink my water, and realise how lucky I am to be in a position to do this small thing to try to help fund finding a cure.

Seventeen more days to go. It’ll be fine. But no more invading my dreams, please.

If you want to donate, my page is here: https://www.justgiving.com/Karen-Jones-dryathlete2015/

P.S. Raj is lovely and would never actually trick me and taunt me in this way. Probably.

Wine Free and Almost Whine Free

“Let’s do the Dryathlon thingy in January!” is something I said when I was drunk, sometime in December – or maybe November. I dunno, I like wine, it could have been any time.

Of course, in the sober light of morning, I changed my mind. Until the next time I’d had too much wine (probably the next day) and, “Let’s do the Dryathlon thingy in January!” came tumbling out of my mouth again.

It was clearly something I wanted to do, wasn’t it? Really? Deep down?

I signed up (while drunk), and set my fundraising target at a low-end £100 (loads of folk do Dryathlon and I didn’t want friends to feel obliged to donate or to have to donate too much) and then dedicated myself to drinking as much as I could for the whole of December, culminating in our annual Hogmanay party where I broke a personal best for guzzling copious amounts of Cava and Prosecco. I stopped drinking at 5 am, and even then I only stopped because everyone else was going home or off to bed. I had to accept it was over. The time had come for the fun to end. I tidied up and went to bed at about 6 am, really looking forward to the month of abstention ahead. I was going to get so healthy and fit and happy. Yep. Definitely.

On January 1^st I woke at noon. I was ill. Hungover? Well, yeah, obviously (was there any Cava or Prosecco left in the world that day – I doubt it?) but also a sore head, a hacking cough and general chest cold symptoms. Rough. Really rough. I dragged myself through the day, cooked and ate some steak pie, washed down with alcohol free red wine.

Yes, that’s right, alcohol free wine. It’s wine that’s had the alcohol ‘carefully removed’. I’m one of those people who needs the crutch – the wine glass, filled with a wine-like substance. My brain needs to believe I’m still part of this civilised world where a glass of red with dinner is not only okay, it’s the best part of dinner. Thanks to my chest cold, it didn’t taste too bad. Thanks to my chest cold, days one to six were absolutely fine because I didn’t really feel like drinking at all.

Then came day 7. The chest cold symptoms not quite so bad. Still the horrendous cough, but no longer feeling so rough. Alcohol free wine tastes like cherry juice. Slightly warm cherry juice. I want proper wine. Unfortunately, we are surrounded by it. Everything that was left after the party is still here. About half a dozen bottles of Cava and Prosecco and a few bottles of champagne - they’re actually very easy to resist - but the box of Shiraz, the bottle of Wolf Blass red, the bottle of McGuigan’s red, those three are killing me as they stand there, flaunting their deliciousness.

And they’re not just delicious; they’ll make me feel all warm and fuzzy and smiley and happy. And I've not been well. and it's been a whole week. And I've almost doubled my fundraising target anyway. And no one would know.

But, of course, they’ll also make me feel like shit in the morning, stain my teeth even further, add more empty calories to my day, stop me from sleeping – and as a chronic insomniac, I don’t really need any help in that department – and replacing them will further deplete my beleaguered bank balance. And I signed up for a month, not a week. And those people who donated donated on the condition that I stick this out. And I'd know.

Tut.

So I will hold strong. Only another 24 days to go. It’ll be fine. It’ll be good. And come February 1^st, I’ll be the cheapest date ever.

Gies another glass of that … water. Cheers.

*For those who don't know, Dryathlon is a fundraiser for Cancer Research. Participants stop drinking alcohol for the month of January. It's torture.