Only six sleeps to go until I have to give up drinking for a month as part of Go Sober for October; one of those daft things to do like growing a moustache in November or stroking a weasel on a Wednesday. All in the name of charity. In this instance the name is Macmillan Cancer Support.

I say six sleeps (as opposed to six days, or any other time measurement system) to try and bring a little child-like fun to the terrifying prospect of going without any alcohol whatsoever for – heck! – for 31 sleeps!

Enough of the sleep thing. A month! A whole month with no booze! It is, simply, unthinkable.

To make matters worse, just think of this (if you can, given that I have just described the whole debacle as unthinkable):

Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November.
All the rest have thirty-one,
Excepting February alone,
And that has twenty-eight days clear,
And twenty-nine in each leap year

Sober! October! Go Sober For October! Do you see? They only went and picked bloody October because it rhymes!

What the fuck, I ask you, is so wrong with Don’t Be Merry For February?

Still… I’m committed.

One thing that may help me is thinking of alcoholic drinks that make me sick.

Early in September we went on holiday to Menorca. A bar in Cala Galdana had, as it should, a Happy Hour. Two drinks for the price of one.

On our first go we all had the local drink that none of the locals drink: Pomada. It’s a cocktail (if you can call Menorcan gin mixed with lemon Fanta a cocktail; and I can).

Here’s Zoe, Andrea, and Frank enjoying their Pomadas (I’m taking the picture, giving me 30 seconds of practice for the forthcoming month).


Nice drink.

Happy Hour was 6.30pm til 7.30pm. At 7.29pm we panicked. All was well though, we got our order in. Zoe and Andrea went for Cava. Me and Frank took a gamble.

In 1964 Che Guevera said:

We must move forward, striking out tirelessly against imperialism. From all over the world we have to learn lessons which events afford. Lumumba’s murder should be a lesson for all of us.

Until now… as in now, as I write this… I had never heard of Patrice Lumumba. He was the first democratically elected Prime Minister of the Republic of the Congo and he was executed by firing squad. The UN failed to help him, and (according to Wikipedia)  MI6 might have had “something to do with it”.

I am completely ill-informed, but, as far as I am concerned, the only thing Patrice Lumumba can truly be found guilty of, is giving his name to the shittiest cocktail ever created.

If you are ever offered a Lumumba, just say no!

If you plan to Go Sober for October, spend the next six days drinking nothing but Lumumbas. After only one day you will be willing to embrace a lifetime of sobriety.

You may have gathered by now that me and Frank, in our ignorance, ordered Lumumbas.

It looks like this:


It’s a cocktail that comes in a pint glass.

A Lumumba is some kind of cold chocolate drink mixed with Brandy.

It is not for me.

Please help me not drink for a month. Please, if you can, give a little money to Macmillan. For every £5 you donate, it not only goes towards supporting families and individuals living with cancer, it’s also five pounds you won’t be able to spend on a Lumumba.

You can sponsor me here.