I gave dry January a go and lasted three weeks which is enough, isn’t it? I’m not normally a fan of such fads. Movember might be for a good cause but it seems that hardly anybody donates anything to charity and it is just men posting pictures of their questionable facial hair on Facebook in the hope of attracting girls’ attention.

“Nice tash, Ryan! LOL.”

“Thanks babe. How’s things?x”

Even people who weren’t doing the ice bucket challenge were irksome as they made a song and dance about their moral standpoint:

“I choose to donate to charity of my own accord. I DO NOT agree with wasting water!”

“Aww, too right Ryan!”

“Thanks babe. Wanna meet up?x”

I went for dry January because, without trying to show off — “Quiet one last night, just the eight pints” — I had been drinking too much. My weekly unit intake began sneaking up after I’d “smashed” a 10K run in early November. Will people stop saying smashed soon? I hope so. For the record, my time in the run was modest, not a smashing, but it represented a last stab at wholesomeness before the slippery slide into the festive season and, by mid-November, the Wednesday night glass of red had become an 8.57 pm dash to Patel’s to buy a second bottle.

Here are some findings following three weeks of abstinence.

· I felt marginally cheerier at work. I didn’t, for example, get angry with my colleague when he did his daily, unbelievably-loud sneeze.

· I had slightly more energy, taking the bins out without Louise having to ask twice before clattering around deliberately noisily until I step in.

· The self-satisfaction you get from waking up at 8am on a Saturday and going out for the day is outweighed by being unable to celebrate with a pint.

· My friends liked me less.

· Camomile tea is nice but saying “Camomile Heskey” has a short shelf life.

The results, then, were unspectacular and I probably won’t do it next January. So, there you go.

Thanks for reading.

Alcohol aside, Louise and I are trying to get in shape as our wedding is fast approaching. The big day is in less than five months, which isn’t long. I once waited for five months for my CRB check to come back.

Undeterred by our fruitless first foray into fitness classes, we have started weekly personal training sessions with a mate (I’ve only recently learned how to do those hyperlinks so expect an annoying influx in future musings.) As my pal was demonstrating how to hold a heavy metal bar, he asked me if I wanted triceps like his. The answer was, of course, yes. He does exercise for a living, after all. He got Louise and I to run up and down his street, taking it in turns to give one another piggy backs. A senior colleague of mine happens to be his next-door neighbour and I remain hopeful that she didn’t look out of her window as Louise was carrying me on her back, sweating and swearing. How do you explain that?

Louise is fully committed to this new healthy lifestyle. She doesn’t do things in half-measures. She has watched the TV series, Dexter, in its entirety. (Were 8 series necessary?) Her commitment was evidenced when I found a new book in our living room which wasn’t there when I left for work. Flicking through, I followed the adventures of a lycra-clad Scandinavian woman who eats carrot sticks, meditates on white-sand beaches and rides horses through meadows. Riding horses is good for mindfulness, our beautiful host tells us. I disagree; as a child, I rode a horse on a family holiday in Majorca. My horse got angry and started fighting another horse while I was on his back. I felt terrified, not mindful. Perhaps the Scandinavian’s methods are flawed?

My pals and I went to the opening night of the swanky new casino in Leeds on Thursday evening. It is excellent and, as long I can stop when the fun stops, it will be a great addition to the city. It represents a step up from Napoleons which was apparent in the queue when the bouncer told a man that he would have to remove his baseball cap if he wanted to come in. The man was far too reluctant to do this, claiming that his ears were cold. It was warm inside and caps don’t cover ears, so I thought this odd.

The casino was covered in sparkling ribbons and giant balloons, everyone was immaculately dressed and we rubbed shoulders with celebrities — I stood next to the Look North weatherman at the bar and was genuinely star struck. We drank fancy cocktails, won handsomely on blackjack and had a terrific evening. The only snag was that casinos don’t have clocks and when we left, it was 1am, which is at least ninety minutes too late for a Thursday. My pal, worried that his wife might be annoyed with the late return, managed to get hold of one of a giant balloons and took a great deal of effort to squeeze it into our taxi home. There’s only so long you can be cross with a man when he has given you a balloon so large it contains smaller balloons, isn’t there?

Predictably enough, I didn’t feel too clever at work the following day. Around eleven am, the office had fallen into the quiet lull that follows the Friday bacon sandwiches. I was sat staring at the non-moving small clock at the bottom of my screen, my mind drifting. Calm. Silence.

“ACHOOO!!!”

I wanted to punch him in the face.