Alcohol Abuse - Binge Drinking
Dear Granny D
For most people, the festive season is a time to celebrate; a time to toast out the old year and ring in the New. I always used to love spending Christmas with my family and friends, lounging on a sheepskin rug next to the crackling log fire and whiling away the hours with a glass of mulled wine and a box of liqueurs. Sometimes, when it was snowing, I’d stand by the window and watch the snowflakes falling past the orange glow of the streetlamp outside our house, and I’d wonder at just how lucky I was to be surrounded by all the people I loved so much. They were by far the happiest times of my life.
But that’s all changed now, except the part about me staring out of the window. For me, Christmas has become a time to hide myself away in my poky little bedsit and think up excuses why I can’t go out for a Christmas drink with my nearest and dearest. Well, some of them; most of my family don’t speak to me anymore and my friends turn away if they see me in the street. They say I’m an embarrassment. I guess that’s the price one pays for being an alcoholic. What they don’t know is, I have recently been diagnosed with alcoholic hepatitis, and the Consultant said that if I don’t quit sooner rather than later, it will almost certainly lead to cirrhosis of the liver. Once that happens, it’s pretty much goodnight, Vienna.
It all began with the odd bottle of Echo Falls on a weekend. I’d invite some friends around and we’d order a takeaway, indulge ourselves with a little chitchat about girly things, and neck a few glasses of plonk, as you do. It all seemed innocent enough. I guess I was just another gullible consumer being seduced by that advert at the beginning of ‘Come Dine With Me’. It wasn’t long before I’d find myself sneaking in the odd bottle of Jacob’s Creek through the week, and maybe popping into the Wine Bar on my way home from work. Not surprisingly, one thing soon led to another and, before I knew it, I’d slipped into a rapid decline. I had joined Tesco’s Wine Select Club. Within six months I was regularly accumulating enough Clubcard points to pay for my weekly food bill, a few bottles of eau de toilette to help disguise the smell of alcohol, and new underwear which, incidentally, I needed to buy on a more frequent basis.
As the drinking increased, I began to lose my appetite. I felt nauseous and would scratch myself until I bled. Yet even that wasn’t enough to stop me. My skin started to turn yellow, which I told everyone was down to a fake tanning product churned out in Bradford called Ambre Saltaire, and that was enough to fool people for a while. It wasn’t long, however, before even the most credulous of people started to have their doubts when my legs began to swell and my stomach became bloated; apparently, these were all symptoms of my condition. Despite all of this, I still managed to get through five or six bottles of wine a day; and whereas I had become known for having a penchant for Château Pontet-Canet, I was by now quite happy to drink Vinedos De Espana out of a brown paper bag. It was at that point, when I hit the Spanish stuff, that I decided it was time to see a Consultant, and the rest is history. As things stand, I haven’t touched a drop for nearly eight weeks now, but it feels like a living hell. All I want is one more bottle but, if I do, I know it could kill me. Damn that blonde lady on ‘Come Dine With Me!’ She seems to live such a carefree existence. Where did it all go wrong? The only place left to turn is you, Granny D. Is there any advice you could offer me in my hour of need, preferably before I end up on a mortuary slab!
Bloody hell, Julie! If Carlsberg made Winos, you would probably be the best in the world. My heart goes out to you sweetheart, it really does, especially as Tesco are doing 60% off a case of Isla Negra at the moment (that’s less than £4 per bottle, and you get 23 Clubcard points thrown in as a bonus - that’s a couple of pairs of clean knickers to you, dear).
But never mind that, you’ve definitely come to the right place as this is a subject close to my own heart. Believe it or not, the drink played a significant role in the development of my career as a medical professional. Yes indeed, it gave me an understanding of what drink could do and, at the same time, showed me a compassionate side to my nature that I never knew I had. It actually came about one Friday night after a particularly heavy drinking sesh with the girls at Cardiff University’s Student Union Bar. From what I recall, I had managed to stagger my way from the bar and had somehow ended at the junction of Miskin Street and Salisbury Road. To cut a long story, short, there I was, crouched in a telephone box pissing like a filly, when I looked up and saw a poster in a shop window, presumably advertising a Shakin’ Stevens concert. Being far too shit-faced to read anything other than his name, I took out a five pound note from my purse, scribbled across it, “To the Parkinson’s Trust” and handed it to the first passer-by that came my way. Now if that’s not fate, I don’t know what is.
For those Cardiff lasses and me, those were such happy days, but that’s because we knew our limits, Julie; whereas you have obviously taken it to the next level. You seem intent on making the same mistakes as George Best made at the end of his troubled life. I seem to remember George once saying, “There are plenty more where that came from,” though I was never quite sure whether he was talking about the drink or his liver.
So here’s my advice, Sweetie; I’ve seen the photo that you kindly sent through the post and I note that you have a blonde, bob hairstyle and annoyingly high cheek bones. And that’s good because, when you put them together with all that losing weight due to your loss of appetite, and then suddenly piling the pounds back on with the bloated guts and inflatable legs, you have the perfect excuse for looking like a startled blowfish. It’s perfect, you just need to tell people that you’re a stunt double for Fern Britton. That way, you’ll be able to leave that dingy-looking bedsit, discard the urine-stained underwear, and get back out there in that street we call, LIFE!
There are lots of things you could be doing. For example, instead of subjecting yourself to the temptations of the Supermarket shelves, try shopping at your local Greengrocers and Butchers. It wouldn’t harm to smarten yourself up a bit either, maybe do some exercise, go out and buy some Clearasil for those unsightly spots. Actually, scratch that bit about the Clearasil as I believe it contains alcohol and I wouldn’t want you drinking it. What I am trying to say is, you have to put that shitty lifestyle of yours back on the shelf and get yourself a new one, pronto!
There are lots of other tips for a more healthier lifestyle you will be able to try out too, just as soon as you read my new book on how to help fat people. It’s called, ‘Granny D’s After Dinner Hints’ and is due for release sometime in the New Year at the very competitive price of only £9.99. That’s for the softback, Sweetie; I won’t waste my time quoting you for the hardback as you live in a bedsit and I very much doubt you could stretch to it.
By the way, upon receipt of my response letter, you will notice that I have included my address and a SSAE along with the autographed copy of my latest glossy promo photo. I just thought, as you won’t be needing your Tesco Clubcard any time soon, it would be a crying shame to see your remaining points go to waste.
For most people, the festive season is a time to celebrate; a time to toast out the old year and ring in the New. I always used to love spending Christmas with my family and friends, lounging on a sheepskin rug next to the crackling log fire and whiling away the hours with a glass of mulled wine and a box of liqueurs. Sometimes, when it was snowing, I’d stand by the window and watch the snowflakes falling past the orange glow of the streetlamp outside our house, and I’d wonder at just how lucky I was to be surrounded by all the people I loved so much. They were by far the happiest times of my life.
But that’s all changed now, except the part about me staring out of the window. For me, Christmas has become a time to hide myself away in my poky little bedsit and think up excuses why I can’t go out for a Christmas drink with my nearest and dearest. Well, some of them; most of my family don’t speak to me anymore and my friends turn away if they see me in the street. They say I’m an embarrassment. I guess that’s the price one pays for being an alcoholic. What they don’t know is, I have recently been diagnosed with alcoholic hepatitis, and the Consultant said that if I don’t quit sooner rather than later, it will almost certainly lead to cirrhosis of the liver. Once that happens, it’s pretty much goodnight, Vienna.
It all began with the odd bottle of Echo Falls on a weekend. I’d invite some friends around and we’d order a takeaway, indulge ourselves with a little chitchat about girly things, and neck a few glasses of plonk, as you do. It all seemed innocent enough. I guess I was just another gullible consumer being seduced by that advert at the beginning of ‘Come Dine With Me’. It wasn’t long before I’d find myself sneaking in the odd bottle of Jacob’s Creek through the week, and maybe popping into the Wine Bar on my way home from work. Not surprisingly, one thing soon led to another and, before I knew it, I’d slipped into a rapid decline. I had joined Tesco’s Wine Select Club. Within six months I was regularly accumulating enough Clubcard points to pay for my weekly food bill, a few bottles of eau de toilette to help disguise the smell of alcohol, and new underwear which, incidentally, I needed to buy on a more frequent basis.
As the drinking increased, I began to lose my appetite. I felt nauseous and would scratch myself until I bled. Yet even that wasn’t enough to stop me. My skin started to turn yellow, which I told everyone was down to a fake tanning product churned out in Bradford called Ambre Saltaire, and that was enough to fool people for a while. It wasn’t long, however, before even the most credulous of people started to have their doubts when my legs began to swell and my stomach became bloated; apparently, these were all symptoms of my condition. Despite all of this, I still managed to get through five or six bottles of wine a day; and whereas I had become known for having a penchant for Château Pontet-Canet, I was by now quite happy to drink Vinedos De Espana out of a brown paper bag. It was at that point, when I hit the Spanish stuff, that I decided it was time to see a Consultant, and the rest is history. As things stand, I haven’t touched a drop for nearly eight weeks now, but it feels like a living hell. All I want is one more bottle but, if I do, I know it could kill me. Damn that blonde lady on ‘Come Dine With Me!’ She seems to live such a carefree existence. Where did it all go wrong? The only place left to turn is you, Granny D. Is there any advice you could offer me in my hour of need, preferably before I end up on a mortuary slab!
Bloody hell, Julie! If Carlsberg made Winos, you would probably be the best in the world. My heart goes out to you sweetheart, it really does, especially as Tesco are doing 60% off a case of Isla Negra at the moment (that’s less than £4 per bottle, and you get 23 Clubcard points thrown in as a bonus - that’s a couple of pairs of clean knickers to you, dear).
But never mind that, you’ve definitely come to the right place as this is a subject close to my own heart. Believe it or not, the drink played a significant role in the development of my career as a medical professional. Yes indeed, it gave me an understanding of what drink could do and, at the same time, showed me a compassionate side to my nature that I never knew I had. It actually came about one Friday night after a particularly heavy drinking sesh with the girls at Cardiff University’s Student Union Bar. From what I recall, I had managed to stagger my way from the bar and had somehow ended at the junction of Miskin Street and Salisbury Road. To cut a long story, short, there I was, crouched in a telephone box pissing like a filly, when I looked up and saw a poster in a shop window, presumably advertising a Shakin’ Stevens concert. Being far too shit-faced to read anything other than his name, I took out a five pound note from my purse, scribbled across it, “To the Parkinson’s Trust” and handed it to the first passer-by that came my way. Now if that’s not fate, I don’t know what is.
For those Cardiff lasses and me, those were such happy days, but that’s because we knew our limits, Julie; whereas you have obviously taken it to the next level. You seem intent on making the same mistakes as George Best made at the end of his troubled life. I seem to remember George once saying, “There are plenty more where that came from,” though I was never quite sure whether he was talking about the drink or his liver.
So here’s my advice, Sweetie; I’ve seen the photo that you kindly sent through the post and I note that you have a blonde, bob hairstyle and annoyingly high cheek bones. And that’s good because, when you put them together with all that losing weight due to your loss of appetite, and then suddenly piling the pounds back on with the bloated guts and inflatable legs, you have the perfect excuse for looking like a startled blowfish. It’s perfect, you just need to tell people that you’re a stunt double for Fern Britton. That way, you’ll be able to leave that dingy-looking bedsit, discard the urine-stained underwear, and get back out there in that street we call, LIFE!
There are lots of things you could be doing. For example, instead of subjecting yourself to the temptations of the Supermarket shelves, try shopping at your local Greengrocers and Butchers. It wouldn’t harm to smarten yourself up a bit either, maybe do some exercise, go out and buy some Clearasil for those unsightly spots. Actually, scratch that bit about the Clearasil as I believe it contains alcohol and I wouldn’t want you drinking it. What I am trying to say is, you have to put that shitty lifestyle of yours back on the shelf and get yourself a new one, pronto!
There are lots of other tips for a more healthier lifestyle you will be able to try out too, just as soon as you read my new book on how to help fat people. It’s called, ‘Granny D’s After Dinner Hints’ and is due for release sometime in the New Year at the very competitive price of only £9.99. That’s for the softback, Sweetie; I won’t waste my time quoting you for the hardback as you live in a bedsit and I very much doubt you could stretch to it.
By the way, upon receipt of my response letter, you will notice that I have included my address and a SSAE along with the autographed copy of my latest glossy promo photo. I just thought, as you won’t be needing your Tesco Clubcard any time soon, it would be a crying shame to see your remaining points go to waste.
Granny D
