Like Old Times

This past weekend reminds me of all the facets that were once my weekends of yesteryear. A lot of alcohol, a lot of action and very little sleep.

The story starts on Friday, with the news that we would be beginning the filming for the BBC documentary (see last post). Myself and a chap with a camera would be going down to the bog standard local league game between Kempston Rovers and Uxbridge, a mere ten minutes down the road from the desk I'm currently sitting at. It would involve simple conversations and filming some reactions. Nothing more. Nothing less...

So I had to have a clear head for that; for this documentary has to look professional. But my lust for the nightlife, the temptations of making new stories and escaping the everyday spiral that my day-to-day life is becoming was too much. A bottle of whisky was bought. Another Friday night loomed large.

11 hours later, at roughly 5am, I stumbled back through the door of my one bedroom flat; the regrets and wonders of another night stored safely in the memory bank. Knowing full well I shouldn't be doing this; that it will all come back to bite me eventually yet not having the will power to beat the urges. The same, never-ending urges.

I have to be awake in 8 hours, which is fine as I neck mug after mug after mug of water in a desperate attempt to save myself from the impending hangover that are getting worse with age. Living the life of an 18 year old when you're nearly 26 is downright stupid.

I take my medication, as is the habit, knowing that I may as well be eating smarties instead of taking quetiapine. The alcohol cancels it out. It always has done and it always will. I try and sleep. My head is filled with the pain my Mother would feel if she knew I'd started this cycle again. The nervous energy of what lay ahead for the day, knowing I may get abuse or worse. The regrets...

I can't sleep. I look at the clock and it's 07:55. If I go to sleep now, I'm not waking up.

In the midst of these pages are the stories from the BP days. Working night shifts followed by cricket matches followed by night shifts followed by cricket matches. 72 hours of flat out action with mere hour naps in between. This weekend reminded me of those as I got up, got re-dressed and went down to the cricket club to help. I was probably still drunk as I unloaded the delivery for the weekend's Cricket Force work.

After a few hours of wandering around like a zombie, can of red bull in hand, I decide to call it a day. In the blink of an eye, I am home, as if I zoned out and walked on auto pilot.

At 2pm, again in the blink of an eye, I'm at the football ground, welcoming the camera man and talking to people. I can't even remember the conversations I had; the only detail of the whole encounter being that we received 100% positive answers. Good, yes. Television worthy? No.

I get home, the mammoth day has come to an end. One of the highlights of my year awaits on the other side of a much-needed sleep.

Yesterday, I was in Covent Garden once more - specifically the Café de Paris - for the London Eurovision Party. For the third year in a row, we had bought VIP tickets, gaining prime seats for the 4 hour extravaganza of Eurovision acts from past and present. In past years, we had managed to get backstage to talk to the stars. This year, it was much stricter. I wasn't holding my breath.

It was an incredible night, as always. I spent way too much money (that I don't have) as we sang and danced our way through the line-up before joining a few friends on the dance floor downstairs. This is where my drunken, attention-seeking mind took over. Despite claiming I "wasn't so bothered" about getting backstage this year, it turns out I was. I managed to borrow a friend's Access All Areas pass and there I was, a now familiar scene of a free bar with the stars.

Except I have since realised that I was a bit of an arse last night. Not only did I put undue pressure on a friend to give me his pass, I then left him and a couple of other friends behind in my quest to be important. Is this the person I've become? Wanting to be top dog and not a lonesome peasant? Doing anything I can to be the centre of attention and the guy that must be liked at any cost? I feel awful about the events that took place in the early hours of this morning and despite it being an amazing experience once again, it feels a tad hollow in the cold light of day.

Hopefully I've learnt my lesson.

But despite this weekend of action, I have come away with one overriding feeling. That of selfishness. Not just last night, but this last month, I am choosing the easy path again, knowing where that road leads. My mindset at the moment is to live the high life by any means possible, not considering the consequences big enough, before its too late.

So why don't I stop? Why don't I change? Why can I not resist just one more huge night out? Maybe it's narcissism. Maybe Mum was right; I have to stop considering myself better than everyone else. I am far from it.

"Who cares about money? You can't take it with you!" It's a sound bite I've used a lot recently, in the desperate and foolish attempt to justify the way I am dealing with what is a very bad relapse. It's the wrong way, but I know no other.