Dagger Rips Skin for Dog Tribes

MoThe suicide (or that is what is being reported) of the comedian/actor Robin Williams last night came as shocking news but news that sadly won't come as any surprise to those of us  who face this battle every day. Robin had 20 years, <strong>two decades</strong> of clean living under his belt, enough time for the weekend boozers  (who strangely aspire to being awesome drinkers) to among us to depressingly believe  that "hey! We beaten it! The dog finally nails the dastardly (bastardly) beast by cutting off its way-too-cunning head!" Viva la sobrieta! Cured, the man is cured!
But as addicts who face the struggle at every step, we know that with the heaviest of souls, and a finality seldom seen outside morgue doors, that our war is never won. Ever. And respite is always fleeting. Sure, we get "victory days", happy times when the dragon is quiet and busy elsewhere but relief is temporary. As monarchs of revelry,  murderers of moderation, we don't get off that easy. Why should we? Our disdain toward moderation is well known as is our mocking of it, so nature is bound to want to treat us to some lashings of its own.
I put down the sauce on 19th February, 2014. 173 hours ago. 4174 hours. I feel extremely blessed, indeed this current dry run is one of the longest of my drinking career (or non drinking rather *knock on wood*).  Proud is an understatement and my cup of gratitude, much to my delight, is overflowing with the milk of Hope.
But I must be ever vigilant, always on my guard, because it would only take a gentle wind to blow my little HMS Sobriety into rough waters,  and land me back in the eye of a very potent storm. Oh, vile addiction!  And this is the brutal truth of it, so apologies for using yet another soul to illustrate just how grim the battle is. I sincerely hope this post doesn't come across as, "oh poor us! Take pity on our weak, addicted asses!"
I'm merely setting the table and inviting the reader to the dinner of razor children, a feast forged initially by greed and excess,  then after the flames of debauchery have tanned even the darkest spirit, lights dim and we pray for serenity to touch our honest chapters once more.
I wish this sh!t was easy but as the deaths prove (and folk with addiction issues die every day), it never is. Good luck to family and friends who believe their recently sober loved ones are now free from their foul chains but keep them close and guard those precious hearts. That last drink doesn't slay the demon.

The Spiked Barrel

Venture out into most big towns or cities on a weekend after 7pm, and you shall witness more flesh and public drunkenness than is needed to convince you that "getting lashed" (drunk) is now normal for the young and not so young. Its not only normal, its almost expected of you. Don't fancy drinking your own body weight in Jagerbombs, then puking half cooked kebabs in shop doorways? Then you sir/madam, are weird!
But it wasn't always like this. Look at that guy encased in a barrel in the sketch up there. Look fun? It was a spiked barrel too, just to make it you know, that much more uncomfortable. "Oh noes! What foul deed did this brigand commit? Murder? Treason?" Well no, this was the penalty for public drunkenness in Elizabethan times. Cool huh? What a sight it would be these days, we would need to chop the entire Amazonian rainforest to keep up with barrels! Our streets on a Friday night would be like the "Night of the Wooden Daleks".
Interesting how with the passing of time, our attitude towards alcohol can change. We are constantly evolving (and devolving in some instances) to suit the times.

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