One's to many 100 isn't enough.

The breaking point came one weekend in early October last year. My band had a gig in the gloriously grim toilet town of Margate—a perfect excuse for a booze-fueled weekend. And I fully embraced it. After getting obliterated post-show, I hit the town again the next night and somehow managed to get myself banned (again) from one of Canterbury’s only music venues—for what felt like the billionth time.

By Sunday, I was back in Margate, rounding out the trifecta of bad decisions. I went on a second date with someone I didn’t even like, purely because it was another excuse to drink. It was all starting to feel like a bad habit I couldn’t shake—and the cracks were finally showing.

After drinking all day and well into the night I stumbled onto the last train home that evening, I was far past sober judgment. Yet somehow, I thought it was a brilliant idea to meet my best friend in town for “just one more pint.” Wetherspoons the only place appropriate for a late night pow wow. He had some grim tales of our exploits the previous night and what led up to us being banned from the bar…. for life according to him (not the first time I have received a lifetime ban from the bar in question). After leaving the pub, still incapable of walking in a straight line, I decided it was time to collect my BMX, which I’d left chained at the train station that morning. My drunken monkey brain reasoned that if I couldn’t walk, cycling home was the logical alternative. It was a terrible idea. I was incapable of operating this vehicle I fell into the road numerous times and smashed into countless parked cars. Next, I was faced with my nemesis, the Whitstable Road hill. A brutally steep climb that is a challenge on a BMX when completely sober. There was absolutely no way I was going to make it up the hill. Not a hope. Plus, I had not long recovered from breaking my elbow on this hill attempting to do the same thing. Cycle up the hill blackout drunk. I made it that time despite the injury I inflicted upon myself.

Cycling on flat ground felt impossible; reaching the top of the hill in one piece seemed utterly unthinkable. I rarely remember much when I’m drinking, but this moment is etched in my memory as clear as day.

As I began my uphill struggle, I careered straight into a parked car and toppled into the road—again. I just lay there for a while, grateful there was no traffic to run me over. *Come on, Tadhg, is this really who you are? The thought hit me like a brick. For the first time, it occurred to me that I might not make it home this time. Somehow, I’d always managed to stumble back to my bed, no matter how bad things got—except for that one time when I was 16 on my journey home from a party I collapsed and passed out in a bush on the seafront until morning. There are probably many other occasions I failed to make it to a bed. Mercifully, I can’t remember them so they don’t count. However, tonight felt different. This wasn’t just embarrassing; it felt like a breaking point. I scrambled to my feet, dragged my bike out of the road, and collapsed onto the curb to think. A strange, undeniable feeling settled over me: this was a crossroads. I could try to soldier on up the hill, convince myself—yet again—that I didn’t have a problem with alcohol, and carry on as usual. Or I could finally admit the truth. I am an alcoholic. And maybe, just maybe, this moment could be the catalyst to change my life. On a whim, I called my mum. She never answers my calls at this time of night; she knows full well I’ll be drunk and stranded somewhere. As a teenager, that kind of behaviour was annoying but expected of me. At 33? It was pathetic, and I knew it. To my surprise, she picked up. I can’t even remember what excuse I gave her—probably something about my bike having a puncture—but somehow, I convinced her to come and get me. For context, I lived only 10 minutes away from her at the time.

I braced myself for an earful or a lecture when she arrived, but there was nothing. To say I was ashamed of myself would be the understatement of the year. I felt like a loser—small, pathetic, and utterly insignificant. As we drove home, an unpleasant memory from my secondary school days kept playing on repeat in my mind, as it often did in moments like this.

At secondary School my headteacher, Mr. Jones, was a middle-aged, clean-cut, sharp-dressed, and ruthless Welshman. He had this unmistakable don’t fuck with me aura that commanded both fear and respect. At school, I was the class clown, the kid who messed around in every lesson as if it were my sworn duty. Authority meant nothing to me, and I made no effort to hide my disdain for teachers. But Mr. Jones was different. He scared me. There was something simmering just below his composed surface, and I knew better than to push my luck with him. This memory took place during the last class of the day: double maths. I despised double maths with every fibre of my being. That day, Jonesy was covering for our usual teacher. I was up to my usual antics, dicking around and entertaining myself at everyone else’s expense. By mid-lesson, I’d been banished to the hallway—a regular occurrence by that point. When the class finally ended, Mr. Jones asked me to stay behind. Nothing unusual about that; I expected the usual routine: a stern lecture, maybe a detention…… I discovered exactly what lay beneath his calm, in-control demeanour. The moment I shut the door, he ordered me to stand before him, and then dismantled me with brutal precision. His transformation was instant going from composed to furious in the blink of an eye. I stood there, frozen, staring at the floor as his words hit me like a barrage of punches from Mohammad Ali. Usually, I would fight my corner and hit back with some inflammatory sarcastic comments showing how little I cared for his opinion. Not this time, tears welled in my eyes as he demanded I meet his gaze. He called me a mere amoeba, subhuman, an embarrassment to myself and my family. That struck a nerve. Even 20 years later, I can recall every detail of that encounter. I even remember his monobrow and one long, rogue hair sticking out between his eyebrows. I focused on that single hair because I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes. It became my anchor until the verbal assault ended.

As far as I’m concerned to this day, "mere amoeba" remains the worst insult I have ever received. Kudos to Jonesy for that. It met its mark wonderfully cut me down to the size of a pea.
My journey to sobriety truly began on Monday, October 9th 2023— though I must admit, it wasn’t my first attempt. In fact, it’s more accurate to say this is my *successful* attempt at sobriety, a fresh start that feels different than before. To understand how I reached this point, let’s rewind to the beginning of my relationship with drugs and alcohol.

At 15, I was your typical rebellious, know-it-all teenager, convinced I had the world figured out. Looking back now, I see that even then, in 2005, I was searching for something — a place to belong, my tribe, my purpose. So, how did it all begin? The first time I got paralytically inebriated was on a rugby tour in Ghent, Belgium, with my team, the Dover Sharks. I wasn't exactly a popular member of the team. Small, skinny, and shy, I stood out because I went to a different school than the others. I was the black sheep — a role I had already grown used to playing in life. Honestly, my memory of that weekend is hazy for obvious reasons. I can’t recall the games at all, except that we lost every one of them — standard procedure for us. We weren’t exactly a strong team, to put it bluntly. What I do remember is spending most of the weekend avoiding my drunk teammates, who were quick to pick on the weaker members of the group, and unfortunately, I was one of them. There were a few of us. At one point, after consuming an ungodly amount of strawberry Belgian beer, I ran into one of my fellow Sharks heading in the opposite direction. He warned me against going back to camp, saying a group of extremely drunk teammates was picking on the smaller, quieter players. It was getting ugly. They were specifically searching for me. Without hesitation, I turned around and made my way back to the beer tent. If camp wasn’t safe, I figured my refuge for the night would have to be in another round of beer. Eventually, they got me as I was returned to my tent unconscious by the coach later that night. Unable to defend myself I returned home from that weekend with a shaved head and no clothes and a tour t-shirt.

So it began…...

I started drinking regularly at 16. Like most teenagers, it began in parks, at gigs, and on the beach. Those beach parties also introduced me to drugs, and soon I was smoking both weed and cigarettes. I loved smoking—the smell of burning tobacco, bumming a cigarette from a friend, and the rebellious image of a cigarette always hanging from the corner of my mouth. Like Lemmy from Motorhead the height of coolness or so I thought. Drinking every weekend quickly spiralled into drinking on weekdays too, often skipping college to skate and get drunk with friends. What started as harmless teenage rebellion morphed into a coping mechanism—a way to navigate the awkward chaos of coexisting with my fellow teens. It became *my thing.*

In my town, to be anyone worth knowing, you had to have a reputation. You were either an incredible skater, a badass BMXer, in a band, good at fighting, or just one of the effortlessly cool kids. I wasn’t any of those things—though I dabbled. I skated, but I was average. I was obsessed with music and bands but wasn’t in one yet (that came later). I’d been in a few scraps but never came close to being “hard” or intimidating. And as for being cool? Forget it. I was a misfit trying to carve out an identity in a place where you had to fit a mold to matter.

I remember my first line of MDMA like it was yesterday. It was off a haggard old bench near the coastal park in Folkestone. I put on a front, pretending to be a seasoned user in front of the crowd. By then, I had a bit of a reputation, though no one realised it was my first time with MDMA. When the effects kicked in, I was convinced I was having a heart attack and about to drop dead. I was dating a popular girl at the time and, desperate to look cool, I didn’t let on that I thought I was dying.

Looking back, it was an incredible night—one of the few from my teenage years that I remember clearly. Thank God for that. In hindsight, it’s painfully clear I had a toxic relationship with alcohol and drugs right from the start. My teenage life revolved around skateboarding, going to gigs, and hanging out with friends—always with a drink in hand and a cigarette in my mouth. In my head I was Tim Armstrong from Rancid a tortured punk poet. The truth is I was a hopelessly lost kid with a growing dependence on alcohol. Whether it was a two-litre botttle of Strongbow, and a pack of Marlboro Lights, or a case of Stella with a ten-bag on the side, I always had something on the go. I’d earned a bit of a reputation as a “waster”—always the guy who was drunk or stoned. I was proud of that! Ironically, I was never great with weed; my tolerance was low, and when I mixed it with alcohol, it was always a one-way ticket to a white-out. But still, I kept at it, mixing the two each time, like it was a game I was bound to lose but couldn’t resist playing. Eventually, I figured out that Ganja just wasn’t my drug. Sure, I loved the munchies, the mindless chatter, the hysterical laughter that came with it, but the actual experience of being stoned? I found it dull.

In my late teens, I fulfilled a lifelong dream of playing in a punk band, which added a new level of debauchery to my life. This opened the door to a lot more drinking and introduced me to an array of new substances. Being on stage, I could jump around, scream, and shout about everything wrong with the world—all while being completely wasted. Surprisingly, we started to gain a small following. Considering we were four directionless losers without a penny to our collective names and barely a clue what we were doing, that’s something I’m oddly proud of.

At that time, speed and MDMA became regular features of my nights out. I rarely paid for drugs; being "cool" and in a band meant hanging out with a group of French and Spanish students (punks) who somehow loved our music, invited us to parties, and happily shared whatever drugs they had. By 23, though, I’d been kicked out of my family home—a painful event that, despite the trauma, I now recognise as a blessing in disguise. You’d think having to take responsibility for myself would be a wake-up call, but that’s not how it went. I held down two jobs, paid rent on time, did my laundry, cooked, and somehow functioned as an adult—all while drinking and taking drugs almost every night. My housemate was more experimental with narcotics, often ordering new substances from the dark web, and I was always game to try whatever he had. But that lifestyle was clearly not sustainable. It all came to a breaking point one night when my housemate, in a moment of despair, attempted an overdose. He wanted out, and it was a grim reminder of the path we were on. Of course, I was the one who found him—unconscious, covered in vomit and excrement. I’ve never been more terrified. I remember calling emergency services, barely able to say, "I think my friend is dead." In a frantic moment, I followed my instructions from the paramedic, and I cleared his airways of vomit and realised he was still breathing. Thankfully, he survived, but that night marked the beginning of a harsh reckoning with our lifestyle.

Drugs weren’t really my thing anymore—except for the occasional night when I “accidentally” ended up doing a few lines. Alcohol, however, was my go-to. I convinced myself that I had it under control, that I was clear-headed and lucid with booze—aside from the countless blackout nights where I’d wake up with zero memory of my actions. But other than that, I thought I was just fine.

At 26, I moved to London with my then-girlfriend. A big move for someone who was supposedly getting ahead in life—small-town guy in the big city. My anxiety was through the roof most days. But my drinking took on a new, more "sophisticated" form. I still relied on alcohol to navigate social situations, though I was drinking less often and rarely getting blackout drunk anymore—except at gigs or on visits back to my hometown. Mostly, I spent time with my girlfriend doing “couple stuff”: going to the cinema, dining out, exploring London. This was proof enough for me that I didn’t have a drinking problem. But soon enough, my girlfriend grew tired of my nonsense. I’d been avoiding commitment when it came to marriage and kids, things she was adamant about. Two years had passed since we moved, and I still hadn’t applied to university, as I’d promised her. So, she kicked me to the curb. Suddenly, at 28, I found myself in a city where I didn’t really belong, working a dead-end retail job and playing in a band that was going nowhere. It was back to the drawing board…

Fast forward to today: I went to university, got the degree, and eventually moved back to my hometown in search of a fresh start. But it didn’t take long to slip back into old habits—working dead-end jobs just to scrape together enough for rent, then blowing the rest on nights out, with nothing to show for it. That kind of lifestyle is often glorified in your twenties (spoiler: it’s not glorious), but when you’re still stuck in that cycle in your thirties, it quickly turns into a sad, sorry existence. This essay isn't meant to be a trauma dump it’s merely a reflection on my journey to sobriety. Since that Sunday in early October 2023, I haven’t had a single alcoholic drink. Has staying sober been difficult? Honestly, no. By the time I stopped, I had reached my breaking point. Drinking felt like madness—a deliberate choice to give up on my life entirely. It meant embracing a future of relentless anxiety, unnecessary drama, and a cycle of regret and shame. That realisation made my decision clear: I couldn’t live like that anymore.

Disclaimer: I don’t have it all figured out—not even close. I still struggle with social anxiety, feeling alien and misunderstood in this world, questioning who I am and what the fuck I’m supposed to be doing. I still play in a band that, honestly, no one outside of the four of us gives a shit about. Sometimes, I’m not even sure the other three member’s care. For me, though, it’s a lifeline—a buoy that keeps me afloat and gives me a way to express myself in this overwhelming world.

When the dark clouds come to whisk me away

I gotta be strong keep my PMA

When the waves get rough and the sky turns to grey

I gotta be strong keep my PMA

The Half-Wits- The Rain

I couldn’t resist—had to sneak in a cheeky band plug! Those lyrics up there are from a song I wrote called The Rain. It’s basically a letter to myself, a reminder for those moments when life gets fucked up and you find yourself doing dumb shit. You can turn it around. Keep your head up, embrace that PMA (positive mental attitude), and know that you’ve got the power to turn things around. Trust me, drowning it all in booze and substances isn’t the answer—it never is.

The End.