Essays On Drinking

I Write For Beer — And So Should You!

If you only earn enough for one drink— it’s worth it

I’ve only met one person who’s ever made a living from writing. And he’s dead.

He was a journalist working in London in the 80s and 90s and was a friend of my father’s. We had lunch together a few times: beer, wine, whisky, more wine, and more beer — plus a bowl of chips.

I was only a teenager at the time, but I found him fascinating. Living proof that the writers I was reading actually existed.

Each time I met him, he was either drunk, close to being drunk, or very drunk. And always had a cigarette in his hand. Yet, after lunch, he’d be back in his office chasing up a story.

At the time, I was studying Biology and Chemistry with grand plans to become a research scientist. But I wanted to become a writer. I didn’t want to sit in some sterilized laboratory prepping test tubes and sticking them in a gas chromatograph to find a molecule that shouldn’t be there.

I was thinking of specializing in food safety. But only because I’d bought a book called What’s Really in Your Food? And was scared we were all poisoning ourselves.

But to hell with that! I want to be a journalist.

I told my dad. ‘I want to be like your friend!’

My father got angry. ‘Are you crazy? He’s a lovely guy, known him all my life, but he’s a raving alcoholic. Everything he earns he blows on booze.’

Great!

I did go on to study Biology at university and got a job as a research scientist for a large agrochemical company. You may have heard of them? AstraZeneca — they make vaccines…

I quit after a year and went travelling. The job was dull and I had other plans.

I ended up teaching English abroad — no surprise there, every dumb English-speaking wanderer ends up doing this. But I found it as dull as my last job. The wages were dreadful, plus I felt like I was just teaching something I’d learned as a kid. Was I going to teach swimming just because I could swim…?

I returned to the UK and fluked a full-time job for a local paper based in Bristol. It was small ads, local stories, reviews, that sort of thing. Nothing special. But it was a writing job, and it was fun. There were only five of us on the paper, but we made it feel — and drank — like we were more. Until it went bankrupt.

Yes, bankrupt.

The owner, drunk on the success of having launched a newspaper — no mean feat! — then got drunk on the profits. And ended up without a pot to piss in — or a paper.

After that I had a string of writing jobs churning out articles like ‘10 Best Public Toilets In [fill in the location]…’, Or, ‘Meet The Local Celebrity [fill in name here]…’ Before moving to France to take a job teaching English.

Yes, I know! What happened?

I’d vowed never to teach again, BUT by this time I was nearly forty, and I was panicking! What did Clint Eastwood say in Gran Torino?

‘No car, no girlfriend, no future, no dick!”

I had a dick but not much else, so I slaved away for a few years teaching nuclear engineers and tech students in Lyon (my science background for once coming in handy). Before jumping ship once again — now with girlfriend — to a farmhouse in the middle of France.

That was nine years ago. I still work on a farm and my aspirations of imitating my father’s friend long gone. I still write of course, but only for beer money.

The money I earn from my farm job goes on the mundane — food, housing, heating. The money I earn from writing goes on beer.

The arrangement suits me fine. It curbs my excesses, while at the same time gives me an incentive to write. If I want to drink, I have to write.

You should try it at home. It works well.

I earnt $40 last month from Medium and $2 from Amazon from KDP reads — Yes, I’m hitting the big time!

Once my forty bucks is translated into Euros, it buys me a crate of Kings Bräu beer that tastes like recycled urine. And a 5-litre box of Merlot that has the bouquet of balsamic vinegar. But you get used to it after a while.

I don’t know what my father’s friend would think of this. He’d probably laugh, then piss in his pint, and drink it.

This was one of his party tricks. I never saw him do it, but my dad did. A full pint of urine down in one. He said it was good for you. But I think that depends on your diet. My father’s friend didn’t have a diet. He had a drip, and it was always on. One of those old school type of writers who lived like he wrote. Hard.

If he was alive today, he might approve of what I’m doing. Proud I’ve kept a lid on my drinking, unlike him, and proud I’m still writing. And earning a few quid from it, however small.

Because let’s face it. There’s nothing better than a cold beer in the evening when you know you’ve earnt it. Even if it does taste like piss.

Thanks for reading this beer-soaked autobiographical piece. If you’re interested in reading more pieces, check out: