Dom's Rambles

I hate Christmas - and I mean I absolutely detest it. Not because the fake bonhomie annoys the hell out of my inner curmudgeon (although I do find it irritating - everybody running around pretending to be nice to each other is just so unnatural) but because Yuletide is always when my most crippling emotional and financial disasters seem to occur. Even when there’s nothing obvious on the horizon there’s still such an air of dread filled anticipation hanging over the proceedings that I can’t relax until it’s all over. Indeed, I have no doubt that when the massive heart attack that finally dispatches me to plead my case before The Almighty arrives it will do so over the festive season and will have been triggered by the associated stress.
This year though, my emotional disaster came early and was out of the way by mid September, which took some of the pressure off. After almost a decade of my ill-conceived relationships still going tits-up after a few months, but going tits-up in a relatively civilised fashion, we were back to classic Dom form; screaming fits, projectile crockery, barrages of abusive and infantile text messages, possessions being dumped in the street etc.
(memo to self: if there wasn’t enough common ground to sustain a relationship with someone back in 1990 then it’s a fairly safe bet that there still isn’t. Do not, under any circumstances, embark on another dead-end affair with a miserable, neurotic, self-pitying hypochondriac who dresses like a 14 year old tomboy and who sublimates her urge to self-harm by having more body piercings than a Cenobite would consider tasteful – regardless of how much you might like playing happy families and even if she does have a sylphlike figure and fucks like a porn star)
Now I’ve rinsed the bile out of my mouth let’s get back to some semblance of seasonal topicality. This Christmas Eve marked the fifth anniversary of me knowing that I’d managed to quit smoking for good and as I haven’t posted a substantial blog entry for a while I’m going to tell you about it.
When you think about it nicotine really is the most idiotic and pointless of addictions. With most others - a coke or smack habit for example - the addiction is an inconvenient and unwanted consequence of a pleasurable activity. With cigarettes the only pleasure is derived from satisfying a craving you need to develop an addiction in order to have. It doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense.
I’d been seriously considering having a go at quitting for about a year before I finally made up my mind to. In late October of 2001, I was admitted to hospital for a major ear operation and as I was going to be bedridden and sedated for most of the three days of my stay, and thus unable to have a cigarette anyway, this seemed a pretty good starting point. I ceremoniously smoked what I was determined was going to be my last Marlboro outside the main entrance of Sheffield’s Hallamshire Hospital before checking in.
The minute I checked out I bought myself a pack of Nicorette gum from the pharmacy in the hospital’s lobby and promptly threw away the instructions. Rather than substitute the gum for cigarettes and then gradually wean myself off those, as you’re directed to do, I took a more creative approach. What I did was to go cold turkey until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I’d then chew a piece of gum until the craving subsided, spit it out and start the whole process over again. It took about two and a half weeks before I was reasonably confident I’d cracked it. Granted, it wasn’t an easy process by any stretch of the imagination, but it was nothing like as arduous as I was expecting it to be.
There was one major obstacle still to be overcome though: the pub. This wasn’t really an immediate concern as I was working 12 hour night shifts, six days a week and my social life was in a bit of a trough as a result. However, there was a gathering of the old Lincoln clan scheduled for Christmas Eve and I knew this would be the acid test.
And I passed it with flying colours. On Christmas Eve 2001, when I was pissed off my skull - and somewhat (ahem) stimulated to boot - I managed to hold a lit cigarette between my teeth without the slightest urge to inhale. That was when I knew I’d done it.
For the first few months I revelled in that insufferable sanctimoniousness of the ex-smoker. Whenever anybody lit a cigarette anywhere near me I’d start flapping my hands about in front of my face, making exaggerated coughing noises and delivering condescending lectures about willpower.
Then I started to put on weight. This was rather worrying as I’d always been rake slim (in a young ‘n’ wasted, party-hardy, rock ‘n’ roll sex god kind of way of course) and had maintained a 30 inch waistline from my teens right up until that point. I could eat as much stodgy food as I liked, drink enormous quantities of lager, take no exercise whatsoever and my weight would never rise above ten stone. I always assumed I must have a high metabolic rate or some kind of internal brake that stopped me from absorbing carbohydrates at a certain point. Within six months of being smoke free my waistline had ballooned to 32 inches; by the time a year had passed all the new pairs of jeans I’d had to buy were getting worryingly tight, I had a noticeable gut and people had started commenting about how my face had ‘filled out’.
The puzzling thing was that my dietary habits hadn’t changed and it wasn’t as if I’d started eating more to compensate for the lack of fags. I never quite figured out whether there was something in cigarette smoke that reacted with my system to keep me skinny or whether it was just sheer coincidence that I quit smoking at the time of life when I was due to lard up anyway.
Then, about two years ago most of the weight fell off. I still have a 32 inch waist but my gut is greatly deflated and I can see my cheekbones again.
Having beaten the weed (which sounds a lot like a euphemism for an act of self-pollution) it may well be time to give some thought to tackling my thirst for its demon companion.
I always used to rationalise the amount I drank by claiming that I did so to forget. When people asked what I was trying to forget I'd tell them I couldn't remember but that I daren't stop drinking in case I did – which would mean I'd have to start drinking to forget again.
But over the last couple of years I’ve upped my consumption by a worrying amount and to the degree that I'm worried I might actually be doing myself some serious damage. Also of considerable concern is that on the increasingly rare occasions when I go to the pub for a night out I’m having a lot of trouble remembering what I did. Leaving aside any health issues for a moment, it’s all very well getting pissed up and acting the idiot in your 20s but at my age it looks a little pathetic. I have a nagging feeling that I made a prize winning bell-end out of myself on New Year’s Eve - so much so that I can’t bring myself to call any of the people I was out with to confirm or deny it.
This has prompted me to make a New Year’s Resolution: I’m off the booze.
Well, just as soon as I’ve sunk that bottle of Absolut vodka my sister got me as a Christmas present.
Then there’s that three litre zeppelin of Olde English cider in the fridge.
And possibly one of those 20 packs of Budweiser they have on special offer in Morrison’s.
Okay, maybe I’ll just cut down a little. Doubtless the love of a good woman would be able to sort me out!