ALL these blokes writing in the newspapers and coming on television to tell us about their battle with the booze and how hard it is to lay off. I think it's time I came clean with you, dear reader, and told you the whole sordid truth about my own personal struggle which takes a rather different course.

When I was a lad growing up in Leeds in the 1950s, I had the normal youthly appetites: out to watch Leeds Rugby on a Saturday afternoon and then to the Capitol or the Majestic for the weekly dance. You might meet those terrifying things called "girls" there, so you needed a stiff drink or two to build up Dutch courage. Over the evening I would down, say, four pints of bitter and finish off with a couple of Scotches. The saxophones blared and the deodorants were efficient and you could take pleasure as the end of the evening came as an agreeable blur. In time I became more discerning and learnt to take my girlfriend to a cosy restaurant where we would take a nice Sauvignon with the fish and a smooth Medoc with the lamb. A cognac or two, and so to bed.

I proceeded after this fashion for half a lifetime. But a couple of years ago, a disturbing phase set in. I found that when someone set before me a lovely glass of Chilean Merlot I flew into a temper and refused it. It was the same with my mates at the bar: "Have a pint, Peter." "No, if you don't mind, I'll have a fizzy water." I tried to hide my sobriety but people always found me out and I became aware that they were talking about me behind my back. At last I had to admit I had a problem: I had gradually, almost imperceptibly, begun to drink less and less until I was a non-alcoholic.

Non-alcoholics always try to deny that they have a problem, of course. I would say: "I'll have a Scotch in a minute - I'm just quenching my thirst with this orange juice." But I couldn't keep up the act and eventually I sought help. The counsellor said: "Look, try starting each day as if it's the first day of the rest of your life. The mornings are the worst. I know you'll crave something really powerful like a tomato juice with your breakfast. Resist the temptation and help yourself to a few slugs of tequila or Jack Daniels." Well, I tried. I really tried. I would follow my counsellor's advice and gulp down a whole bottle of Moet et Chandon over the bacon and eggs and a tumbler of Famous Grouse for elevenses, but come lunchtime I was sneaking off into the gents with a bottle of Perrier.

Work suffered of course. All that Malvern water was destroying my ability to concentrate. I lost all self-esteem. I would go on benders, knocking back lemonade and cabbage water suicidally. I was becoming paranoid and paralysed with guilt, so I changed my counsellor for a psychoanalyst. He said: "Don't be so hard on yourself. Non-alcoholism is not a moral failure, it's a disease. The first stage on the road to recovery is to admit you're a non-alcoholic and cultivate a desire to start drinking again. Avoid places of temptation such as coffee bars."

I was actually doing quite well for a time, I'd got back up to three pints a night and the odd brandy. But then I was led astray by a Methodist minister and in no time all the good work was undone and I was back on the decaff coffee - gallons of it. My condition deteriorated and when, for the fourth time in a month, the boss caught me with a mug of cocoa at my desk, I got the sack. My wife was threatening to leave me. I reached rock bottom. That was when I allowed a friend to take me to my first Non-Alcoholics-Anonymous meeting. It felt strange at first to find myself among all those genial blokes supping pints of ale and playing darts. But gradually I got used to it and started drinking regularly again.

Of course, I'm not kidding myself. I say every morning with my whisky: "I am a non-alcoholic." I live each day as it comes, knowing that any minute I could fall back on the wagon and lapse into the tormented existence and half life of the teetotaller.

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