Pour me

Aged 30, at a treatment centre in the west of England, Adrian Gill lay in the last-chance saloon, in the dark of a dormitory with six strangers. His dark yet laugh-out-loud memoir charts the year between the end of his marriage and the end of drinking, on April 1st. Or perhaps it was not a year – it might be only 6 months or 18. None of this is hand-on-Bible fact. The one charity of drink is that it strips away memory. So this book is an attempt to resurrect the boat that was going the other way, and its cargo, its log of how he got here. Being Adrian Gill, this is no faith-infused tale of redemption. It isn’t an account of a debauched drink-and-drug hell; there will be no lessons to learn; or handy hints or golden rules.