Under The Influence
I was six years old when Dad handed me a tiny glass of whisky and told me I only needed to take a sip. Six, I say, and not sixteen.
It was Christmas Day 1969 and our extended family was gathered around two long extendable dining tables that took up the full length of the living room. One of those tables was usually used for pasting wallpaper, but it looked fine under a white tablecloth.
Christmas dinner could not begin until Dad gave his toast to "absent friends" and we paused for a moment as he recalled the family he had left behind in Poland and the friends he had lost in the war. This was an important ritual and Dad insisted that we make that toast with whisky - even the youngest child and that was me.
I can still recall the almost overpowering aroma as I raised the glass towards my lips and then the burning sensation as I took that first sip. It was vile and I reached immediately for my tumbler of raspberry cordial to wash away the taste.
That was forty years ago but last week, on the last day of September, I had what I hope will have been my last ever taste of alcohol. I was sitting in a pub on Glasgow's Byres Road, enjoying the company of a friend and making sure I was on the ball when the time came for me to buy a round. Men, in Scotland, judge each other by such things of course. About half past ten, I drained my third pint of lager, set the empty glass upon the bar and decided I'd had enough. Enough for that night and enough for a lifetime.
Fellow boozers, I have to explain that my job was starting to get in the way of my drinking. To be specific, I have spent the past few months poring over the various programme offers that came to me when I suggested that ´óÏó´«Ã½ Radio Scotland should have a season of programmes devoted to alcohol.
Reading through those proposals, I was confronted by the hideous reality of what is happening to people's lives. The financial consequences, the health issues, the impact on children and families. We're calling our season Under the Influence because alcohol permeates so many aspects of Scottish life. Think of Scottish comedy and Scottish sport. Think about sponsorship deals with alcohol firms. Think of the number of Scottish jobs that are dependent on the whisky and beer industries.
Think of the crime. Think of the violence. Think of the wasted lives.
It just dawned on me - decades too late - that boozing is one of the daftest things we do to ourselves. Well that and following World Cup qualifying campaigns. So I decided I would quit drinking on the first of October, just as our season of programmes begins. I've now been dry for three whole days. Two-and-a-half, really.
I won't lie to you, I already miss it. I'm also worried that my beer-loving pals will abandon me. I fear spending Friday nights in draughty community centres, singing kum ba ya and arguing about whether tea tastes better if you put the milk in first or last. But then, how many of those fantastic alcohol-fuelled conversations do I remember now? Not many.
Oh and I'll try not to become a bore about this. In fact, if you catch me evangelising just tell me to put a cork in it.
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