“The cause of, and solution to, all of life’s problems”.

‘What is alcohol?’ is the Final Jeopardy answer to the above in case you’ve never seen The Simpsons. I sometimes think I shouldn’t drink, because it stops my brain from working properly. I’m not exactly what you’d call a big time drinker, but I do drink, and I do occasionally drink too much.

When I say stupid things that make me look either like a complete dick or a drooling idiot, it’s usually because I’m drinking. If I post something dumb on social media or offend someone, it’s usually because I’m drinking. When I do stupid things at work, it’s usually because I was drinking the night before. I’m not saying I’m particularly smart, but I’m not exactly a moron either (somewhere in between the two usually). But when I’m drinking, I usually start to slide down the scale towards the ‘moron’ end.

It’s not always the case, however. There was the time I’d been drinking and joined some friends online in a game, shouting ‘What’s up bitches!’ by way of introduction and proceeded to kill twice as many Locust as everyone else, or the times when drinking gives me the little boost I need to be able to talk to good-looking strangers on a night out or to forget that objectively I’m quite unattractive or that I really, really, can’t dance for shit. Believe it or not, there are also those who have suggested I’m quite funny when I’ve been drinking as well. Whether that says more about them or me, I’ll leave to you to judge.

Since I am now bearded as well as balding there has been a few times when it seems assumptions have been made that I could be quite intimidating if I had a mind to be, appearing that I could go from mild-mannered to full-on nutter on a dime. As I am, frankly, about as tough as jelly this could lead to dire consequences if I allow myself to believe, even a little, in those assumptions when I’m drinking.

So should I stop drinking so I don’t make myself look like more of an idiot than I am? I have considered it, and I’m not going to do that. The truth is, I like to drink. I like tasting wines and ciders, and I could sip all variations of Jack Daniels all night long. So, I figure that the more unfortunate side effects of drinking are simply part and parcel of me, and anyone who knows me has long since accepted that sometimes I say weird or stupid things. And if you don’t know me? Consider it part of the charm.

Adventures in beards.

I’ve been clean-shaven for the last 36 years. I’ve never really felt the need to leave my face to grow hair, but recently there has been an increase in noise from spouse, colleagues and children to let the face fuzz off the leash. So I did.

For the first few weeks it itched like buggery, but after sticking with it for a little longer the nasty prickly feeling subsided and things became a bit softer. There was much positive feedback; Rach liked it, the kids started calling me ‘fluffy daddy’ and treating my head pretty much like a cat. Even my mum liked it. The intention is (always was, really) to keep growing for the meantime. I mean, what’s the point of growing a beard if you don’t grow a big bushy one? For some reason, this seems to be less popular.

Rach has talked about secret trimmings while I’m asleep, and mum is somewhat less enthused than she was. The kids love the idea still. I am intending to persevere. While I had Tormund Giantsbane in mind, so far comparisons my friends have made include some wrestler, Ed bloody Sheeran and…Prince Harry. If you can believe it two thirds of them were meant as compliments. Fuck sake.