I was banned from every pub in town – it was a wake up call

‘I’m sorry, I can’t serve you,’ 

It was 1992, and I was faced with a woman behind the till at an off-licence. 

‘It’s ok, I’ve got ID,’ I said.

‘No, I really can’t serve you. The police came in and told me I had to stop.’  

‘This is ridiculous, I don’t need you anyway. I’ll go elsewhere’ I shouted and left, desperately trying to figure out who in the town of Ambleside had been behind this. I suspected I would be able to find a drink elsewhere – there were other options.

Resigned to expensive pub drinking, I searched for an alternative and when I entered a family-friendly pub, the barman confirmed my worst fears: ‘Can’t serve you. You’re banned from all licensed premises in Ambleside.’  

I’d been released without charge by the town’s custody sergeant earlier that morning, after having fallen asleep in a public space and awoken in the police station of a local nearby town. His words came rushing back: ‘You’ll remember me,’ he had said.

As the realisation dawned that I had no way of getting a drink, panic flooded me. 

I was born into a caring family who established a successful family business during my childhood. Along with my older brother, Kieron, we all pitched in to help my mum and dad with their electric retail and repair shop.

But I felt like I didn’t know how to speak to people the way others did. I was shy and awkward – I didn’t know how to play or have fun. I felt different. 

Until I had my first drink of alcohol.

At a party when I was 10 years old, I drank a glass of cider and I thought it was the best thing I’d ever had and I spent the entire night looking for more.

Suddenly, I belonged. I felt confident, happy, free, and although I was very young, my obsession with drinking began. 

By my mid-teens I drank whenever I could – parties, gatherings, anywhere possible – and one drink always led to another. 

Though usually shy, alcohol spun me into high drama: hitchhiking at 15, climbing into a car full of young men, trying to jump out as it sped along. 

I was lucky to survive nights like that. 

Support from school got me through my GCSEs but the start of my A levels were different – it was marked by being drunk in class, absences, suspensions, addiction-centre visits and finally expulsion after four months. 

I felt scared and confused. Even then I could see that alcohol was causing issues in my life, I treated the downsides like the side-effects of a good medicine – because to me, that’s exactly what it was. 

People such as friends, family, staff and health professionals tried to help but there was a loneliness I felt deep in my bones, and they couldn’t reach me. 

My first mental hospital detox came at 19, a couple of months after I was told at the off-licence and pub I was no longer going to be served. It felt alien – I didn’t feel like I belonged there.

I had done 5 weeks in the detox at a mental hospital. And then moved to the rehab section of the hospital, where I only lasted 6 days.

I was determined to take the matter into my own hands.

What followed was two years of rough sleeping, trips to different places – idealistically believing it’ll change things, psychiatric wards, various institutions including hospitals and rehab, and a growing sense of hopelessness. 

My parents tried everything – to get me to the doctors, counselling, paying off my debts and even getting me into various rehab clinics – but essentially, they felt powerless.

In March 1995, aged 22 and having not drank since November, I decided to go to India on what I considered my last month on Earth before drinking myself to death, something happened that I can’t explain – but changed me for good.

On a trip to a library with my uncle in Puducherry I heard a voice shout ‘I want to live’ back at me.

I looked around me to find the source, but realised it was a small voice in me that had become loud, and I wanted to live.

From that moment, I knew I was going to go home, go to recovery meetings, get a sponsor, and change my life.

But sobriety alone wasn’t enough. I needed purpose, structure, a way to reconnect with society after years of living on its edges. 

I walked into the local Royal Voluntary Service and asked about opportunities that were meaningful but not overwhelming. 

I started with Meals on Wheels. I was awkward and self-conscious at first, unsure how to explain to others I worked with why my life looked so different from others my age, but gradually the work became about the people I served. 

I loved it. Other RVS roles followed – hospital trolley rounds, the magistrates’ courts café – each one stitching me slowly into everyday life. 

Volunteering gave me the confidence to go back to college 1997 to take my A levels. I felt worlds apart from my 16-year-old classmates, often eating lunch alone in a park I had once lived in.

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But I persevered, and slowly, life became easier. I made friends and I passed with an A and two Cs. 

In 2001 I graduated with a first-class degree in sociology and social anthropology and won the department award. I’ll never forget the tears of joy in my eyes, then hearing my family on the phone, knowing tears were falling from theirs too.

Over the years, a desire to serve has taken root. Volunteering gave me a sense of purpose, and I felt useful.  

Today, my working life has grown to include student coaching, pastoral roles, mindfulness teaching, adult education and library work. I spent 10 years supporting refugees, asylum seekers and others as an ESOL learning mentor. 

And now, over the past 20 years, I have been supporting addicts in recovery and since 2018, teaching mindfulness in adult education.

It feels like everything has come full circle in the most wonderful way. 

Recovery isn’t always easy but it is possible. On the 18th November 2025 I celebrated 30 years of sobriety, taking it one day at a time. 

To anyone trapped as I was – unable to live with alcohol but unable to live without it – find your local 12-step recovery group, the future you cannot imagine may be waiting for you. 

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing [email protected]. 

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