The Day I shat myself in the 2013 London Marathon

Hi guys

To celebrate London Marathon day I thought i'd share my blog from a couple of years ago about the day I did 'a Radcliffe'. It's funny, brutally honest and real. Sunday April 21st 2013. This is my account of the day from morning to night. Some parts are touching, some parts grim, some parts you may find boring & some full of vim. Strapped in? Comfortable? To paraphrase the great Dylan Thomas, To begin at the beginning...

The Alarm went off at 6am. I woke to the most beautiful bright sunshine. Not a cloud in the sky. Everything was set for a truly iconic day. It was here. It was now. It was sunny. It was London Marathon day, Hooorayyyyy!!!

I had registered on Friday at the huge Expo at the rather annoying located Custom House. You get the buzz when you register. Lots of messages on the vast Adidas wall to do with Boston and personal messages of why people are running in memory of loved ones. That is when the sheer scale of the day really hits you and you get a special sense of emotion, excitement and adrenaline. This is what it's all about.

There are also stands and stalls selling everything from running products to massages. It's like a huge airport departure lounge except with fit women in Lycra. For me it's awful as i am the worlds most gullible impulsive spender. I'm not happy unless I've done £200 on something I may only use once. It gives me a proper thrill (I am an addict after all)

I came away from the Expo with a new bag, running compression socks, shorts, hat, rock tape and sweatbands. I had to pull myself away from the compression shorts with in built ice pack for £85. God that was hard to do, however I left in good spirits & £200 lighter. I was An officially registered starter. Number 33,480.

I was excited for the big day. I prepared properly. Cut out the diet coke, reduced my smoking from ultra heavy to heavy, ate clean, did yoga, stretched, slept and rested like never before. I felt good.

On Saturday night I feasted on salmon, veg and sweet potato.

Now having done loads of them you would have thought I knew exactly what to do. Except I'm  insane and I behaved like a total rooky. Mistake number 1. I ate lots of things I hadn't eaten before and wasn't used to digesting. Flapjacks. Those little fuckers are like crack cocaine and boy did i tuck in. Before I knew it, this little over eater had done 6 of the sodding bastards and felt stuffed. No matter, i consoled myself with the fact they would give me lots of energy on the big day and slept like a log.

And so to Sunday. I woke early to bright blue skies & immediately tucked into some porridge. Then mistake number 2. I finished off the flapjacks. Oh god those bastards were so good. I couldn't leave home for 90 minutes though. 3 goes on the khazi until i was satisfied i had completed the traditional marathon runners morning Constitution. I won't go further but it is a much under rated part of preparations. A full carb loading stomach means the propensity for stomach problems is rife. Little did I know this was to prove my undoing hours later.

Mistake number 3. I wrote a clever dick ironic funny post on Facebook . "Please God let everyone who is running & watching have a safe day, to enjoy it and feel at one with each other. Oh and please god don't let me shit myself and ruin my self obsessed carefully crafted image". Oh how I invited trouble. Will I ever learn?

Then it was off to Greenwich Park for the start. I hopped on the tube and was immediately impressed with the London code of not saying anything to anyone on public transport. Even though there were other runners, we all ignored each other like it was a commute to work. Not a lot of Marathon spirit on my tube. I tried to strike up a conversation, but that was met with short shrift so i settled into listening to hardcore drum and bass to get myself hyped up. Mistake number 4. Never listen to pumped up music for a marathon. That should be for an explosive event. Instead i now realise i should have gone long and slow in my music. Something like REO Speedwagon. Instead the hardcore got me dancing around the train like I was on E and i couldn't wait to run. Needless energy expended.

Mistake number 5. I popped a couple of Ibuprofen and Lemsip Max to iron out my annoying cold and painful back. I'd taken some on my long run a couple of weeks ago and it was fine, but you should never mix medication.

I refrained from my usual routine of cramming in several cigarettes on the 10 min walk from station to start line. Once in the park it is a sea of mass hysteria and excitement. People rubbing, prodding, changing, warming up. It is a great sight. I changed and was ready to go. I changed next to a guy called Steve. He took a little longer than me but it pretty much summed up what the day was all about. Although I'd be gutted if he beat me.

Then you throw your bag into the truck, have several pees, jump over the barrier towards the front of the mass group (35,000 people) and wait for the countdown. This is when it hits home how big the race is. It's huge. An Incredible amount of people. We all put on our black ribbons in honour of those who were killed or injured in Boston and had a 30 second silence in their honour followed by 30 seconds applause. It was poignant and emotional. A moment I was proud to be part of. Solidarity to you Boston.

It was now 10am and the Virgina London Marathon 2013 officially started. Well the elite did. Mo and the boys went off first and my group took about 5 minutes to get over the start line.. We were off!! Let the fun (and pain) begin!

The start is always a nervy occasion. There are so many runners it's hard to get any kind of pace. I had left my watch at home so I decided to run 'on feel'. I had my previous best of 3 hours 37 in the back of mind. Someone had bet me £400 for my Charity if I could do it. I'd been injured for most of the winter, was under cooked in training but I felt good. I felt strong. I felt euphoric and I really enjoyed the first few miles. Taking in the scenes, the crowds, the sound systems. It really was a celebration of life. The crowds turned out in force, almost in defiance of what happened in Boston and it was the busiest I'd seen in my 9 years of doing it.

I kept a steady pace. Not too quick. Saw some friends on mile 2, fed off the crowd. Keeping my head down, doing the occasional High Five with a little kid on the side. Really the marathon doesn't start until Mile 13. The first half is all about pacing yourself and enjoying it whilst you can. Keeping energy in reserve.

I got through Greenwich on mile 6, Cutty Sark and the crowds were just enormous. Even through Rotherithe and Surrey Quays. The noise was so intense. Then you get to Tower Bridge on Mile 12 and you float across. I saw my family and had a quick hug and then it was eyes down to half way in 1 hr 54. I decided to slightly quicken my pace a little just to see if I could get ahead of the game. This is where it started to go wrong and so the story turns.

I had been getting a stomach ache from mile 10. Thinking it was a bit of wind, I carried on but it kept getting worse. Worried I may 'do a Radcliffe' I refrained from trying to shift it - the consequences were dire and I couldn't trust myself. I'd just have to live with it.

On mile 15 I found my energy draining, getting the sweats and stomach worsening. 'Oh god I'm in trouble now'. Here's where I made Mistake Number 6. I took an energy gel and ibuprofen to get through it. In hindsight, not a great move.

**WARNING. THIS FOLLOWING BIT IS GRIM. YOU MAY WANT TO LOOK AWAY **

By mile 18 at Canary Wharf  I was in big trouble. I needed a toilet. I was definately going to shit myself. Gurgling, cramping and pain shooting through me. I felt sick. I was ill.

"Oh fuck me no. Not here. Not in front of 30,000 people. Not with 8 miles to go." I thought about my Facebook update - Please God don't let me shit myself. Well here it was Nick. You were about to. Who's laughing now. With your self serving supercilious updates. Fuck you Facebook!

I looked around, people were lining the course. No toilets, no quiet places, no pubs or restaurants as the crowds were 20 deep. Oh god no, I'm going to be Googled as 'the bloke who shit himself at Canary Wharf'. I could see it now. I'd be trending on social media by midnight. #shitboy.

The carefully crafted self obsessed image. All the hopes of being taken seriously as a writer, comedian, compere, comedy club host, businessman, actor, David Beckham look-a-like. All dashed, I'd be forever pointed at wherever i went as that bloke that squatted in front of crowds, families and kids and shit a river.

Oh god, please no. "I can't do it in front of people" I thought. They've come to watch their families running, not my arse with torrents of brown laser".

I was in a world of pain, just about carrying on through Canary Wharf until Mile 19 then A miracle, A mirage. 10 portaloos!!!. Oh my God. It was like a mirage of green in a desert - I staggered up to them mouthing gratitude under my sickly breath.

Opening the first door I was confronted by a scene from turd hell. It was like a shit grenade had gone off. I immediately recoiled in horror, slammed the door shut and tried trap 2. Exactly the same. "Oh fuck what if they're all like that?" Trap 3, 4 and 5 were rendered 'impassable', I was running out of options here and panic was rising. Then I saw a girl come out of Trap 6, "nice one, i thought, A girl is bound to only use a clean one". My theory was proved correct and in I went, Thank God. AHHHHHHH.

To give you an idea, I was averaging 8 minutes 40 a mile for the 1st 18 miles. I took 23 minutes for Mile 19. 14 minutes of that mile was spent in the portaloo. A World of pain.

I came out and started running, thinking, "well that's not so bad I'll still try and beat 4 hours, that's cleared the decks". I ran on for 1/2 mile until the stomach gurgle came back, the energy went and I felt sick. Oh god 6 miles to go and I'm in bits. I started cramping again.

The urge to shit my pants was so strong, but i held on. I did a world record clench. Then followed a slow run for the next few miles until i was forced to stop and walk on mile 22 for a few yards until I was forced to stop, I leaned over the barriers and began retching. I was in big trouble here.

I started running again, along limehouse onto the embankment. By now the crowds were fever pitch and huge but there was a sheet of glass between me and them. I couldn't engage. I couldn't take it in. I couldn't feed off them. I had nothing left. I was spent. Thoughts of quitting seemed so good, but then I couldn't face anyone then. No i had to continue. Another slow jog until mile 23 when another sanctuary in the Blackfriars Underpass. More portaloos. Oh fuck me YES! Thank you Lord of Portaloos.

Same scenario as before, but this time I wasn't so fussy. I would have shat in a sewage tank the state I was in. Another 10 minute pit stop and then out, chugging away. I saw people I knew but i wasn't really aware or able to communicate, heavily cramping and dehydrating i passed the London eye, (I was going slower than it) and saw the Houses of Parliament. Only a mile to go. Oh please help me make it. Please don't let me finish up the mall with turd down my legs. I'll never get on tellie then.

I turned into Parliament Square and the runner in front of me buckled and collapsed to the floor. Legs gone. Eyes rolling, he was delirious. I knew the feeling. For a moment I thought of joining him, but i stopped with another bloke to check he was alright, we gave him a gel, squirted some water on his face and then i have no idea why i said this or where it came from, but i heard the words come out of my mouth to the other guy 'lets carry him. We have to get him to the finish'.

We hooked his arms around us, flanking him either side, carrying his weight and trotted on. Fuck me the crowd went wild. All runners passing us saying 'well done' patting us on our backs. "good on you mate", "That's the spirit of the marathon"

"Oh fuck me yes. Of course. This is it", I thought. "This is the reason I've done it. This will pull this horrible marathon out of the bag. Forget about selfish personal bests. Forget about individualism and selfishness. This is human spirit. We have to get Josh across the line. It's going to be the enduring image of the marathon. It will be huge. Front page photo. Tellie. Interview with Johnathon Edwards.

The true meaning of humanity was right here, right now and then he started passing out. No!!!!

Nightmare. I talked to him, kept him awake, telling him it was OK, willed the crowd to shout for him but his legs stopped working. We were 600 yards short of the finish on Birdcage Walk. Less than half a mile to go. We could actually see Buckingham Palace.

"Fuck, don't wilt here Josh. You're our fucking saviour. Hang in there pal". I said. The other guy said 'no more', his legs had gone too. I considered for a moment carrying him on my shoulders, single handed. That would definitely make tellie and the media. I reckon I would get a few interviews and speaking tours out of it. Together we are Stronger would be my Mantra. I would be the spokesman for humanity and togetherness. Me, with a stomach bug, sick, dehydrated carrying a half conscious man over my head across the finishing line. That's a front page right there.

And then Josh started to fit. Fuck it was all over. The dream had ended. We got the paramedics, they sorted him out, wrapped him up, got him conscious. He was OK but his race was over. Mine had 500 yards to go and i was disappointingly forced to finish at a crawl anonymously, with no fanfare, no sick man on my back. No interview with Colin Jackson, no media photograph. Just me, my ill body and dodgy guts. Barely able to stand. Josh was so fucking selfish, he ruined my future.

I staggered across the line, with no TV, no Publicity, no attention. Just another finisher,  apparently had my medal hung around my neck, collapsed into the portaloo's (Heaven, they were sparkling fresh) My London Marathon was over and I didn't publicly shit myself.Thank God.

I collected my bags, got changed, staggered to the meeting point to see my family, collapsed into them and couldn't speak for ages. I was spent. Totally gone. No pictures, no videos, no joy. No euphoria. Just need to get home to a toilet.

I was ill for the rest of the night (and next day) and if I'm honest embarrassed by my time. I expected a lot quicker but on reflection it was probably one of my greatest achievements to actually finish. When you are Ill like that the place to do it is on your sofa in front of 'Loose Women' and 'Flog it'. Not with 8 miles to run on a marathon course in baking sun in front of Half a million people. It was harsh. Never again.

I made some stupid mistakes. I'm a right twat sometimes but never did i think i was going to get that reaction. In hindsight i wouldn't have taken anything, kept it simple and gone old school. Still never mind. It's over now. I raised £1500 for Action on Addiction, my superb charity who were there supporting. I enjoyed half of the occasion, I got called David Beckham 16 times on the way round and I helped another human being for 700 yards. Not all bad.

If only Josh hadn't whited out it could all have been so different. Instead 125 people will read this blog instead of 125,000. Oh well at least it's good for my ego. God knows best. I did learn though that deep down i am a good person and did practice what i preach in helping another human, but what is really fascinating is really deep down, so deep you wouldn't see, is an inherent selfishness and sense of delusion that is quite staggering. Only an alcoholic can think of speaker tours and TV under the guise of helping out a stricken runner. My selfishness makes me smile.  Weirdly I can only see it when sober and that Ladies and gentlemen is why I ran it for Action on Addiction.

#TogetherWeAreStronger (that would have been world wide trending on my speaker tour Twitter page if only Josh hadn't fucking well passed out - he was so Selfish!)

Peace and Love

Nicholas Edward Evans

xx

David Michael Evans - Xmas Day 1944 - Good Friday 2009 - A Life and Death of Alcholism

I always post this same blog on Good Friday. I wrote it years ago, but it's always relevant this time of year. Easter is hugely symbolic to me. I consider myself more spiritual than religious but this time of year has extra emotional significance for me and my family. 
  
My Father, David Michael Evans died of alcoholism on Good Friday 2009. My Grandparents were married on Easter Saturday, my Grandmother the family matriach was born on the 13th April, my neice on the 14th and I had my moment of clarity and went to my first AA meeting on Easter Sunday 2001, setting in motion the journey to sobriety and recovery 18 years ago. Bingo!

If Easter is about death and rebirth, it's ridiculously symbolic David Michael dying of alcoholism on Good Friday and Nicholas Edward getting sober on Easter Sunday! I'm honestly not making this shit up!

I write this as a sober recovering alcoholic of 18 years. I write this as a passionate supporter and advocate of recovery. I write this as an adult child of an alcoholic. I write this to promote the education of alcoholism/addiction as a serious killer illness and family disease. It is mis-understood, largely ignored and completely under-rated. Whilst people die or spend years in misery (and I include family and friends of the alcoholic/addict too) the medical, political, treatment, social media world largely miss the true nature of the malady and problem and fail to find a solution because they have no idea what's wrong. I hope in some small way this following piece lays bare what the illness is, what it can do and the alternatives to it.

Today is the 10th anniversary of my father's death. He died a lonely, alcoholic death in a warden controlled flat in Parsons Green on Good Friday 2009. He was alone, 64, unfound for 6 days. His was a sad, alcoholic tale of life and death.

His alcoholic death affected a whole family, town and generation. Although tragic it inspired my Mother to go to Alanon and find recovery after a 40 year battle with alcoholism. It  galvanised a cause in me to campaign for my own and other people's recovery from alcoholism as a terrible, powerful destructive disease and it has helped many people through reading this story or hearing about his demise. He has acted as a powerful example of what untreated alcoholism does.

Only a man of his ego could be born on Christmas Day and die on Good Friday! He was an arrogant bastard with a great sense of humour. Only a man of my ego could find a sober rebirth on Easter Sunday 2001. You couldn't make it up. I have taken on this family arrogance baton into sobriety. Like father like son.

I loved my father, he was my hero. A large, funny, charismatic man. But he was afflicted by the disease of alcoholism and after he left the family home in 1985 when I was 13, he effectively lived a solitary life of a drunk until he died alone, in 2009. A 24 year slow and lonely suicide. Suicide by instalments. 

I share this because it is interesting on many levels. I am not owning the story to be sadder than others. Many people have tragedy and sadness in their families/past. I am not using it to puff up my ego and make a point. (at least I hope i'm not)  I simply wanted to put the story of alcoholism down and how it affects a family and how in death life can begin.

It is a story of life and death, alcoholism and recovery. Sadness and light. It is a story about how David Michael Evans' life can inspire. Perhaps not in the way he thought or wanted. But in the way it was. I hope some may find solace, connection, identification or hope through reading it and have a couple of chuckles along the way. After all what is life without laughter?

I hadn't seen my father since I was 18, and then it was only for 30 minutes when my Niece was born in 1990. He had left my life when I was 13, due to his heavy alcoholism. He lived a life of a street drunk, popping up now and again. The odd phone call here, a card there. He was alive but not alive. The living dead type life that active alcoholism brings.

You get used to the drama and chaos an alcoholic causes in a house but you just get on with it. The drama becomes the norm and that's all someone growing up in alcoholic/addict house is used to. You don't blink at arguments, police, court orders, domestic violence, fear, guilt, worry and violence. In fact normality seems rather dull in comparison.

The effect on a child growing up in this environment is profound. You don't think it of course as you just live your life, but for me it has resulted in a double life, people pleasing, dishonesty, feeling sorry for myself, feeling superior to others, incredible anger, frustration, impatience, lack of self esteem and a series of failed relationships and commitment issues. Part of me never grew up. Of course, I'm not laying the blame for my life  at my father's door. My own alcoholism did a great job of that, but now that I'm 43 I can see how some of the patterns of my upbringing has affected my life as an adult. Part nature and part nurture. That can be true of many people.

When I got the call in 2009 I was shocked. I hadn’t thought about him for ages. You get used to not having a father. I called my Mum, brothers and girlfriend. I was asked by my cousin if I wanted to take care of affairs, seeing as he had been out of our lives for so long. I didn't hesitate. Of course I did. He was my father after all and it was my duty.

I made calls to the coroner trying to find out the facts of his death and piece together his life. You have to take the role of a sleuth, trying to piece together the alcoholics final few years.

I found out he lived in a warden controlled flat. On welfare for years. He had apparently been in and out of hospital for years with liver failure and host of other alcohol related problems. He had a hemorrhage in his sleep and was found dead after Easter, he had been laying dead, in his flat for a few days. Last seen before Easter, so i figured a man as egotistical and grandiose as him, born on Christmas Day 1944, probably died on or around Good Friday. Only he could do that!

The coroner was lovely stating that it would have been quick and he wouldn't have suffered. But he suffered for 24 years.

I went to where he lived and spoke to the warden who put some pieces of the jigsaw together, it was then the real details of the alcoholics demise were brought to life.

He lived in an old peoples block for 3 years, looking disheveled and tramp like most of the time. Leaving early to go and drink with his pals on Sheperd's Bush Green and coming back late at night. He said he didn't have kids (3 of us) and had effectively blocked out his past. (I don't blame him or am angry or hurt, it's just the pain of alcoholism - imagine normal people saying how can you do that? Too painful for him i guess so much easier to say you didn't have any)

I got the keys to his flat. I needed to see where he died. How he lived and get any details, papers and articles. The warden warned it wasn't nice. That he had been dead in bed for days. I was with my Mum and girlfriend (a normal person who hadn't ever been exposed to alcoholism or addiction)

Nothing prepared us for that flat. A small place. We opened the door and the stench of death was overwhelming. The heating was on full blast, it was a mild Easter and it was just a horrible smell. Disgusting. On the left was the kitchen. Bare, no cutlery, plates or anything. Just an ironing board with a book on it. A Rebus book from Ealing hospital library and rather ironically a book on health. In the fridge was an old fish and chip dinner out of date by 5 weeks.

Then the living room. Bare. 1 chair. A guitar, Free newspapers. Hospital papers and that was it. Empty. soulless. In humane.

The bathroom. Filthy. Covered in blood on the walls and toilet. Like he had been throwing up blood for years. A horrid state,

And finally the worst room. The bedroom. An utter synopsis of the end of the road for an alcoholic. Fuck Tracey Ermin's Bed installation. If I was to do one entitled alcoholism. I would reproduce the room. It was horrifying, upsetting, shocking, sad.

The stench was horrid. There was blood on the empty bed where he had died. There were clothes and knee deep rubbish all around the room. Empty bottles of vodka, cider and High strength lager strewn around. Cheap ones. When you reach that stage of alcoholism Smirnoff and other 'luxury' brands are long gone. Blood spattered paperwork was next to the bed. Shit and devastation everywhere. It was truly horrifying. But I guess the norm to him.

I had to look for his wallet, to try and get some details. I found his trousers on the floor. And this to me sums up alcoholism for those of you who don't understand it is a mental illness with a massive ego and self esteem divorced from reality. He had a pair of chinos (shit stained) with a dressing gown cord as a belt and in the pocket of these trousers which signified someone who had given up, were 2 combs. 2 combs! Clearly he still thought he 'had it' even at the end. That is the delusion of alcoholism, and always makes me smile when i think about it. Alcoholism is tragic funny. You have to see the humour to feel the sadness.

His wallet was a typical alcoholic's at the end of the line. A slim plastic two piece Freedom pass pocket, folded in two. In it was a Freedom Travel pass, a cash card, money (fuck me can i have 25 years of child support payments please?) a recent picture of him,  (odd seeing as I hadn't seen him in years, yet he looked so familiar. The arrogant menacing look, the broken nose and face ravaged with booze)

I also found a piece of paper with 2 names and numbers. One was Cathy, a woman he saw for a few years, but she left him to go to New Zealand (You have to go that far to get away form the hardcore alcoholic) and the other, my name 'Nicky (as he called me) Evans (son) and my number. I think that got me the most. Clearly it was numbers to contact in case someone found him.  Like he knew his fate, Prepared for it. He carried me around with him throughout. It makes me cry every time.

I took in the scene. Said a prayer. Talked to him. We took some paperwork and left. We were all stunned. We went for a coffee and sat in stunned silence, shock and sadness. My girlfriend never knew or met him, but she was so sad to see someone end up like that. If someone who doesn't know alcoholism or know the person at all, felt a connection and sadness on seeing that - then it can have a profound effect on people's attitudes to alcoholism. My Mum was so upset as she married this charismatic man, full of life and fun and stature. She had 3 children with him, she went through years of horrific alcoholism with him, yet for her to see his final years like this was massively upsetting for her. Tragic. It left a print in time on all of our minds.

For me? I don't know. He was my father. My hero. I looked up to him, Sought his approval. I was his son. I was upset of course, But i guess 8 years in AA, helping lots of newcomers or low bottom drunks, going to hostels etc - made me sort of used to what i had seen. I was also there to do a job, get my father buried with dignity and organise the details. I was shocked but i think i had better preparation than my Mum or girlfriend. I felt the connection of it being my father of course, but I also saw alcoholism, the rapacious creditor claiming another life.

Those were the circumstances. A few things stuck in my mind. The warden said my Dad was funny and joking that he discovered Charlotte Church. I emailed her management team and they had never heard of Mike Evans. I'm not sure she frequented Shepherds Bush Green much, though i admire his Grandiosity.

The other was my brother Rob, organising the funeral directors and getting a discount deal. Great businessman, his Dad, a born bullshitting salesman would have been proud.

At the funeral there were 8 of us. Mortlake Crematorium. Nobody attending was from post 1987. Another example of how alcoholism robs you of life. A vivid example. It was a long slow suicide. A living death. A textbook case of alcoholism. The difference between active alcoholism and sobriety can be seen in funerals. My father pursued it to the gates of insanity and death. He had 8 people at the funeral. My friend Malcolm who dies last year 22 years sober had 300. The difference is stark.

It doesn't mean they are loved any less. It doesn't mean their lives are less worthy. It doesn't mean they are lesser people. It just means alcoholism will rob you of everything until it gets what it wants in the end. Your life.

I shall end this blog with the words I spoke at the funeral as we got him cremated to the Theme Tune to Minder. The last time we were together as a family. A happy nostalgic memory before the alcoholism took over.

If anyone is struggling to accept alcoholism as a disease well what do you think the above is?. If anyone wonders why I'm a passionate supporter of recovery now you know. If anyone wonders why i believe David Michael Evans to be a powerful example in death then you've just read why. He is an inspiration for me. One of the reasons I do sobriety. The reason sometimes I'm so evangelical about the power of the disease. I don't want a long lonely alcoholic death. I don't want others to have to endure 30 years of pain. I don't want families to hide it, claim it doesn't exist. I don't want the ignorance to continue. It is real and it affects many people. It is the least understood and most ignorant disease there is.

I get messages, emails and requests from people all the time. Asking for help with their son, their partner or themselves. And you know what's most shocking? Rarely do they want to go to Alanon or AA. 'God it's not that bad is it?!!" Is the general thought.

Well, yes it is and in my experience and fundamental belief. Alcoholism and addiction is a family disease and the only true recovery from it as a family is through a 12 step fellowship. All the others are just window dressing or containing the disease. Almost like a Heroin addict taking methadone. It's just replacing. So if you have it, or are effected by a family member then for fucks sake please do not delay any further, leave your head to one side, quit the debating society and just go to a meeting. PLEASE! It may save your life. If you're willing and ready of course. If not and you think you can soldier on your own. Well, good luck but the disease wll take everything from you in stages one by one. Just see the decline of my father over many years. It's patient and cunning and baffling and the reason these 12 step fellowships exist.

Hospitals, treatment centres, therapists cant help you. They are full of shit if they claim to cure it. The only effective long terms treatment is 12 step. It even costs nothing and is fun. Fuck me it's so simple and clear most people don't want it!! We'd much rather pay £1000 a session with a professional than go to one of those dreadful meetings with those losers! Trust me, the opposite is true and the only thing keeping you out is pride, denial and ignorance. Give it a try. I implore and beg of you. Rant over!

Sometimes i don't feel good enough. Sometimes I don't know what it is to be man. Sometimes my own alcoholic ego runs away with itself or I struggle with my purpose, my journey, my soul. But in this time i felt a man. It felt right. And this year, in my 16th year of sobriety I'm starting to feel that more and more.

Death is part of life. Sad, devastating and painful. Grief has many forms and lasts as long as it wants. But it can also bring life & action. Bring people together. Rebirth and give lessons to future generations. That's how I see David Michael Evan's death. I also saw how my own disease railroaded my grief and allowed old feelings of self pity to make it last longer than usual and consume attention. I have to be very careful and brutal on myself to allow normal human feelings of grief and sadness but also the sick ones of self pity too. One must always be vigilant not to fall into maudlin defects. I see it in others but you're not allowed to call people out on social media or other forms because 'they're in grief' - I know the difference between genuine heart renching sadness and grief and selfish maudlin self pity or guilt. One must cut a severe distinction and I am lucky to have AA and a 12 step programme to give me that perspective. I'm sure Dad would have said 'fuck off you wankers' though. Fair play.

Recovery doesn't have to be sad or serious. My Dad was an insane rip roaring drunk with a massive personality. You can have this sober. You can have anything you want sober. Alcohol or drugs doesn't have to define your life and stopping drinking doesn't mean a life of dull and boredom.

You meet a lot of recovery experts around. In AA, in treatment, on Facebook. Some talk a load of shit, claiming to know answers, preaching at what we should do, leading a fake spiritual arrogant and sanctimonious life. I say fuck it. Fuck them, fuck what you are supposed to do. Be real, be human and be true to yourself. Just don't drink, don't die and don't be a c**t. Seems like a pretty simple set of spiritual codes to live by?

I often wonder what a low bottom drunk like my Dad would think of a lot of recovery models and shit being spouted sometimes so I tell myself to keep it real, keep it honest but keep it humble.

A sense if humour and a sense of fun is important. Stay clear of the experts telling us what to do. Stay clear of the doubters or negative criticism. Just read the end of his life, tell yourself is that what you want. If the answer is no then there is a solution and I went to it on Easter Sunday 2001. It works it really does and if you are a family member affected by someone with addiction/alcoholism there is also a solution for you too. Alanon helped change my mother's life it could help you too.

David Michael Evans 1944 -2009