Bank holiday boozing

Bank holiday weekends (state holidays for the Americans among us) are a trigger for me. Bank holiday weekends comprise of the promise of an extra day off work, which historically meant an extra day of recovery from an extra brutal hangover. It meant two or even three nights of heavy drinking, with the Monday off to wither away before returning to work on Tuesday. Some people describe it as “escaping reality”, suggesting that reality is a prison room we need to be free of. When in reality, drinking was the prison and sobriety is the freedom. Reality is full of joy and adventure, and drinking is an addictive handcuff.

So when the British Queen Elizabeth II died, the trigger for me was the prospect of a surprise bank holiday. That’s an additional potential getting fucked up day to navigate. But that trigger is now only a small click, a little urge, the whisper of the wine crone, gurgling in the back of my head, weak now from the starvation it’s suffered as I’ve got stronger through sobriety.

So as we enjoy this bank holiday weekend, I walk past pubs full of anticipation for the wonders of the day ahead and I feel sorry for those inside, trapped in the alcohol jail, with blacked of windows, not knowing of the joys outside those walls. I know that Monday won’t be a day trapped in a dark room with a pounding headache. I won’t need that extra day to recover from the previous two days of wasted boozing. Whilst I won’t be travelling to London this weekend, to queue in the now 24 hour queue to pay respect to the Queen’s coffin, I know I’ll at least be awake for her funeral. 11am on a bank holiday Monday usually meant I’d just got to sleep as the sun was coming up and wouldn’t emerge until late afternoon. I’ll be refreshed and alert, I’ll remember the day, remember the weekend, remember this moment in history.