Tania Glyde - Cleaning Up: How I Gave Up Drinking and Lived

Tania Glyde is an author, journalist and broadcaster. She has written two novels to date, Clever Girl and Junk DNA. Her short stories have appeared in the Disco 2000 and Vox n Roll anthologies. She was Time Outs sex columnist for two years, and produced and presented the groundbreaking chat show Midnight Sex Talk on Resonance 104.4 FM. She lives in London.

Praise for Cleaning Up

What sets this book apart from other similar memoirs is that it is not only very well written, its actually useful, both for the sober and not-so-sober. It is illuminating about the inner emotional damage that leads to wildly self-destructive behaviour; and also about the society that allows such behaviour to flourishpretty much unputdownable Nicholas Lezard, Evening Standard

Depicts with bravery and a blazingly defiant wit an ongoing struggleGlyde provides more than a harrowing accountshe explores why women drink and puts her experience into the context of a culture that deems alcohol inseparable from fun Metro

A wonderfully candid insight into what could be any binge-drinkers lifeHonest and educational without being preachy Scarlet

Compelling and starkly candid Herald

Insightfulthe points raised are important. Cleaning Up is timely Guardian

Harrowingunflinchingly honestan absorbing personal account Time Out

Smart, funny and achingly honest Sainsburys Magazine

A frank book, sometimes disarmingly so, and will worry many readers who may have a sneaking suspicion they drink a bit too much Attitude

Eminently practical and personalone to recommend to the friend who needs to clean up John Sutherland, Financial Times

HOW I GAVE UP DRINKING AND LIVED

Tania Glyde

A complete catalogue record for this book can be
obtained from the British Library on request

The right of Tania Glyde to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

Copyright Tania Glyde 2008

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

First published in 2008 by Serpents Tail
First published in this edition in 2009 by Serpents Tail,
an imprint of Profile Books Ltd
3A Exmouth House
Pine Street
London EC1R 0JH
website: www.serpentstail.com

ISBN 978 1 84668 655 9

Designed and typeset at Neuadd Bwll, Llanwrtyd Wells

Printed in Great Britain by CPI Bookmarque,
Croydon, CR0 4TD

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is printed on FSC certified paper

In memory of

James CountB Savage
19722006

and

Michael Payne
19642006

Im cold. My hairs stuck to my face. Im trying to open my eyes but the suns too bright. Im cold because the bathwaters cold. It wasnt like that earlier. It was dark then and the water was hot, as hot as I could stand it. My neck hurts from where I passed out with my head on the side. Its light outside. Shit. This wasnt supposed to happen. Theres a dirty glass on the floor. Actually, my neck is really stiff. The lights too bright. I have to move. Im cold. The waters cold. Get me out of here.

I stand in the living room. Ashtray. Tinfoil. Lighter. Nearly empty vodka bottle. Lights glow on the amp. Nick Cave. Its warm with the sun coming in. I walk around naked. Neighbours interested across the way. I go back into the bathroom and slump on the loo. Mission aborted.

Im alive. This wasnt the plan, but Im still alive. Although I dont know it quite yet, its the end of a twenty-three-year love affair.

Imagine going out tonight, and not secreting a small plastic Evian bottle full of vodka about your person before leaving the house, most of which youll polish off in the queue anyway. Imagine not feeling the need to drink a bottle of red wine before making a pass at the person youve fancied for months. Imagine not watching someones body language as they stand at the bar, moving in like a starving cat as soon as they order a round. Imagine not grabbing unattended cocktails from tables as you walk past, nor panicking when your glass is empty, nor sweating when the wine bottle hasnt come your way yet. Imagine not following groups of people you hardly know back to the home of someone youve never met, because theres talk of beer in the fridge and the promise of so-and-so coming round later to drop something off. Imagine not having on-off group sexual relations with people you either dont know very well and dont especially like, or who are already perfectly close enough friends, but, after a long night and a few bottles, pills, tokes or snorts, become more intimate than is necessary for a friendship. Imagine not spending the whole of the next day apologising to people for something you dont really, truly, remember doing. Imagine not spending the whole of the next day, or the day after that, eating Mini Rolls in a darkened room, surrounded by crushed and stained newspapers that youve read twice because you forgot it all instantly the first time. Imagine not forgetting to brush your teeth and take off your make-up, both of which have become long-forgotten indulgences anyway.

Once upon a time, I couldnt imagine living any other way.

I used to be a proud participant in UK pisshead culture. I did the white wine thing and the vodka thing, and launched myself joyfully into the consequent, almost inevitable poly-drug use. To paraphrase Madame Lily Bollinger, I drank because it was Friday night, but also because it was Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, and because it was the weekend. I drank because I was in despair, and because I was slightly annoyed. I drank when someone hadnt called for a few days, and I drank before going to meet them when they did. I drank when I was bored, and when I had too much to do. I drank because I was lonely, and because there were twenty people that I just had to see.

I was an ardent consumerist and a champion of quality: more times than I can remember, in more pubs than I can count, on returning from the bar, I would offer my glass, suspiciously, to a friend, for their verdict on whether the doubles were in fact singles, or whether the singles had been watered down, or whether there was any alcohol in my glass at all. If I hadnt had a drink before going out in the evening, and found myself caged and sober, in a bouncing, rumbling tube carriage on the way to Soho, I used to think I was going to have a panic attack. The feeling would not abate until I was happily tucked in at a bar with a glass in front of me. Seated before the start of a large event, I would become increasingly irritable, and then desperate, if no wine was immediately available.

At times, I used to wonder if I had a problem, but decided that, because so many people I knew seemed to be drinking far more than I was, I wasnt the one with the problem. And anyway, I was, most of the time, a strict, clock-watching 6 p.m.-er, and I almost never threw up, or passed out, in public. And I never lost a phone. Or a credit card. I sometimes did quizzes on websites, which told me I was