Day 40. The End.

"Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin - it's the triumphant twang of a bedspring."

Thank you for reading, and goodnight.

Day 39. It's Christmas Eve.

Ooowwwwwwwwww. Everything hurts. I'm really trying to watch the Moto GP through eyes that just won't open, I can't lift my arms to rub them better, my mouth is sealed shut so I can't cry for help, and my legs are about as useful as Wayne Rooney's wedding vows. There's nothing good about today.

It's not been a good week, but fuck me has it been a good weekend.

I remember at some point, fairly early in the evening, discussing the fact that after a day spent hungover, tired, and drinking champagne in the afternoon sunshine I was knackered and 'won't be staying out too late.' I was still necking Rum with Norman Jay when the sun started to come up this morning. How does that happen?

I could see it coming though, despite a severe lack of sleep and too many tequila's on Friday, despite drinking throughout the afternoon, and despite not wanting to have a late night, I could smell danger. I just knew that at some point it would seem like a good idea to go through the gears and dance my way straight through the soles of my new vans.

It all started innocently enough. After (as predicted) parting company with the wonderful Sophie, (I think you know her as the 'smoking blue mutant') yesterday morning, I headed out to the land of Footballer's wives and Gavin and Stacey to celebrate my closest pal's engagement with the two families. I'd not managed to get any breakfast in, and was greeted by the father of the bride extending what I thought was a handshake and what actually turned out to be the first of many glasses of champagne.

It was a stunning day though, a really beautiful setting for two really beautiful people. We just drank way too much. I love them both, you don't often see two people smile that much, not two people you love very much anyway. That combined with millions of bubbles fizzing around my brain made me a really happy man.

Onwards and upwards..... to 'Concrete,' the boys and American girls had definitely had a few glasses by this point as well, which just spurred me on. I needed to get some circulation into my feet though and couldn't quite get going in that dingy basement, so I dragged everyone round to 'The Bedroom Bar' for some live Salsa - perfect. Not so fucking perfect though, there were 3 hen-nights happening. THREE!!! That's a lot of very drunk women, and by the time I'd walked from the front door to the bar (a testing 6 yards) I'd been accused of being Olly Murs 4 times. I just started saying yes, which was plain stupid.

2am rolled by really quickly, time for bed. I was looking forward to a nice Sunday. A spot of lunch in Borough Market, and maybe, hopefully, meet Soph a bit later in the afternoon for a glass of wine and a catch up. So WHY at this point, with the image of a lovely Sunday firmly in my head, did I suggest that going to 'East Village' to see Norman Jay and Terry Farley would be a good idea? It was only me, Greg and Ibbo who, (after successfully jumping through his own leg) had acquired the company of a girl that looked like Gary Pallister (which is just plain odd) and the thought of a sweaty dance floor and Mr Jay taking us through to 5am was just too good to turn down. I hate my stupid alcohol addled mind and it's stupid suggestions.

Anyway, it's only taken an hour to write these 3 paragraphs but I think things are starting to get easier, that's not to say that my legs won't behave like Bambi on ice when I try and get out of bed, but I can see straight, which is a good start and as such, I'm going to try and make a cup of tea and scramble some eggs.

This is it, my penultimate post. It's like Christmas Eve today. Tomorrow, is day 40. I never thought I would actually make it, when I met Tyler all those days ago and he was sitting smugly on day 39 I never thought I'd actually be able to say the same but I genuinely have done this, and it all finishes in less than 25 hours.

So as I lie in bed, watching '40 days and 40 nights' (it seems like the most fitting choice of Sunday evening entertainment) I don't know what I'm now supposed to do.

I'm not sure how I'm going to behave now, and I think more than ever the next 40 days could be more testing than the last.

Watching Josh Hartnett bitch and moan about things is making me realise that I've handled this far better than he. Maybe the title of this blog is unjust or maybe he's just playing a part and probably shagged half of the cast, but I feel better than he does on any of the days, and yes I've had my times but all is alright really.

It's over, I've got through hot financial people, a festival of feathered girls, Europe's biggest street party, and one of the most beautiful girls I've met, surely I can get through a Monday at work which makes me completed, finished, done. I've conquered sex, whereas not so long ago it conquered my life.

Granted, I miss the aforementioned girl. I'm starting to wonder that maybe if I wasn't doing this things would have been different, but then on the flip side if I wasn't doing this it never would have started in the first place. Rather than lying here missing someone, I would have been over it by Sunday afternoon and back to my normal shit way of life of disregarding beautiful people in an instance. I'm glad I didn't, and I'm glad I'm not that person anymore.

My final words tomorrow. Get in.

Day 36. Just say no.

Life is short.

I've known this for a while now, it was just reaffirmed today, in the saddest of ways.

Just when you think you're going through a tough time, things happen to underline that everything you're doing is neither important, nor particularly tough.

I feel... Disheartened. I think the last paragraph highlights this, but all of a sudden the last 36 days feel like a waste of time.

I've never been one to turn a cold shoulder to the offer of anything. Be it a decade ago when I was in the midst of an epic drugs binge and just didn't take Zammo's advice on board, or throughout the last decade when spontaneity was my middle name, or in the more recent times, when the offer of some night time company was to good to refuse, even if it was Courtney Love offering it* I've never bothered saying no before, there's too much fun to be had, and not enough time to have all of it.

"Life's too short" "I'll sleep when I'm dead" and other such pointless remarks would come streaming out to explain why I'd be on my 12th pint, stuffing a handful of microdots in the chatterbox, whilst marching two girls towards an evening of disappointment. On a Tuesday afternoon.

So why am I doing this now? Why put myself through the best (or worst) part of 6 weeks of saying no? I'm at my wits end, and seriously; if I had the same pals now as I did back then, they wouldn't know who I was.

I am glad for things though. I'm glad the sun's still shining, I'm glad this pint is over 6% ABV, I'm glad it's my third of the evening so far, and I'm glad that one more weekend and this whole thing will be done with for good.

Updates on the 40 days? There are none, other than the fact it's boring. It's still the only subject of conversation at work, and the skirts are getting shorter, but now I feel like I'm offending people by not showing a reaction. My sex drive just seems to be feet under snow. I'm in agreement and disagreement with the one other person I've met that's done this - yes, the last few days are easy. Yes, I do feel better for it. But confident? Ready for day 41? Ready to get back into the swing of London's summer? Absolutely not.

I'm just ready for another pint.


*disclaimer: (for both parties) I have never had sex with Courtney Love, I just would have said yes to the old bitch a few years ago.

Day 35. Nothing left.

I've drifted drastically in the past few days, and seriously considered giving up. Not the 40 days, just the blog. No man in their right mind would give up 35 days into 40, not after what I've been through anyway.

Tyler was right though, it's become a second nature. It's easy, there's nothing nor no one that can stop me making Monday in one piece (and yes, I'm over the moon and more to be able to refer to day 40 as Monday, it feels like a long time coming)

I think it's fair to say the last 34 days have been spent dreaming of a better tomorrow. A day when a chicken can cross the road without having his motives questioned, and a day when I can wake up next to a girl knowing she's not disappointed. (True, I may spend the rest of my life dreaming of the day a girl wakes up next to me and isn't disappointed, but one can still dream.) I've now, as of today, given up dreaming of tomorrow and instead am just going to be happy with now. I'll pat myself on the back and probably never mention this saga again, unless I stumble across the film itself on Film4 in the future.

It's the end of day 35. I've just returned from a haircut, my first since day 11, and Simon is in equal awe of the achievements as I am. I spent the hour supping cold beers and discussing the past five weeks (five whole weeks!) whilst he dealt with my uncontrollable mane, trying to work out why I ever started in the first place. Sure this thing's got an upside, but a lot has suffered due to it as well.

August was a woeful month at work, but you can fuck off if you think I'll be using this distraction as any sort of excuse. My temper is frayed, and I've now developed a twitch in my right eye as well.... The old 'knee bone's connected to the hip bone' song didn't inform me that the testicles are connected to the eyelids, but mine are fluttering around like Harry Redknapp's on speed. I've lost any sort of patience I once had, my relationships with people have been affected and I still can't sleep until about 3am (I ran out of mogodon nitrazepam by day 12)

On the plus side, and in true 40 days style, I think I actually might like someone. I'm inevitably going to ruin things before they get started, but surely if she can deal with me now (and she's aware of the task in hand) she can deal with me whenever. It's also put an unusual spin on what would normally happen at this point of the 'relationship.'

My eyes have been opened, and although it's enormously hard work, lying side by side and chatting about the world is actually a really wonderful thing.

I'm looking forward to Monday, I'm looking forward to Tuesday as well, but at the moment (character flaws aside) I'm quietly content.

Days 30. 31. 32. and 33. The Weekend.

An entire long, bank holiday weekend without a blog.

Even at Vintage festival, where we went back to a time when blogs didn’t exist I managed a few words. It should highlight exactly how alcohol fuelled the past 3 days have been.

It’s Monday morning. I’m so hungover my Rice Krispies have an echo. That’s right, I’m a 27 year old man, eating Rice Krispies for breakfast. They looked easy to swallow, but they are so loud they’re making me feel nauseous.

There’s no way I’m going to make it back to the Carnival today. For the first year in many, this bank holiday Monday will be spent recuperating rather than just making it worse.

The weekend thus far, has been dominated by booze. Booze and girls. I’ll try and fit as much of it as I can remember in here, a lot of it has a blur around the outside though, and smells of amyl nitrate and Red Stripe.

Friday. Day 30… That’s three quarters of the way through, and feeling proud I decide that more Guinness than man should attempt to drink would be the best way of dealing with it. Friday was supposed to be the night we relaxed before the weekend ahead. Myself, and the future groom, a very quiet pint in the local, and then some pizza’s and computer games back at mine. It’s every man’s dream evening (when you’re not allowed to involve women.) It spiralled rapidly out of control though, and at one point the pub actually went to buy another barrel of Guinness. I don’t remember much more.

Saturday. Day 31. Jesus wept that morning hurt, a lot. I managed to peel myself out of bed to head into town – still drunk, I’d decided that I needed a new pair of trainers for the afternoon and as such Covent Garden was a good idea.

Definitely still drunk.

Covent Garden’s NEVER a good idea on a Saturday.

We then headed out East to watch the Arsenal Vs Blackburn game, before firing over to lunch for Emma’s birthday. Emma, (being a girl) has quite a few girl mates. I was really hungover. Put these two points together, mix in some more beer and pizza, it equals trouble. I get dumped on the table opposite the girl who’s Mystique’s (the blue one, from X-men, not that weird band) body double. Excellent. Then more turn up, conversation for some unknown reason moves swiftly to the fact that I’m 31 days into the 40, and goes rapidly downhill from there.

I made a swift exit. New shoes still on, and pants just about intact. I’d arranged to meet an old friend on Southbank. Also female. Just the two of them though, a walk in the park… no pun intended. Really lovely to see them. I managed to get through it with a couple of pints and without going to Camden to watch a ‘really good blue-grass band’ Huh?

It started to rain quite heavily, so I decided to head home, change out of the new shoes, and head back East to meet the boys – who by this point, were not in a good way. Unfortunately, down to Fridays antics, and now a few beers, there are more brains in a pork pie than between my ears. I had no house keys. I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and new white trainers. It was really raining by this point.

The short dash out to Shoreditch isn’t a problem though. Strolling into The Commercial Tavern, I got a round of applause before heading to the bar. Returning to the table, and more of Emma’s friends had turned up, it was at this point that I realised how severe my ban has got.

I was introduced in the following way……… “This is Chris. I wouldn’t bother. He’s celibate for another week. He’s doing that 40 days and 40 nights thing.”

You have got to be taking the fucking piss.

It’s not like when you’ve got no legs, and people nickname you Usain Bolt… you don’t need to explain the nickname. It’s really quite visible for everyone to see. When it comes to my little experiment I can explain it away whimsically if needs be. If I get the chance to, it gets described as ‘admirable’ – I’m still laughing at this, but I can obviously position it in such a way that it doesn’t make me look like a sexual terrorist. When Emma’s doing it… well, it does.

Not all bad though, it’s not like I want the attention with a week to go. Pffftt. Wrong. I really do.

Once The Commercial Tavern asked us politely to leave (after numerous tequila’s, Jager-bombs, 9% ciders, and Guinness) most of the party piled into a taxi to Centre Point hoping to carry on the party.

My legs weren’t working in unison, in fact they were doing the complete opposite. I decided, partly because of this, partly with Notting Hill in my mind, and partly because it was approaching the morning and I was still in shorts, t-shirt, and trainers, that I was going to head home and get an early night.

Sunday Morning. Day 32. Imagine the scene. It’s day 32. I’m waking at around 8am, on day 32. I can’t believe it. That’s longer than any calendar month. People have asked me during the past 32 days ‘what’s the longest you’ve gone before’ my answer (only including sex) has more than likely been ‘probably a month’ so therefore, this is the longest I’ve ever been, since being sexually active, without sex. Excellent work. I’m proud.

So 8am and the sun is shining, which has already put a smile on my face as we’ll be off to ‘Good Times’ in about 4 hours. I’m lying in bed, catching up on Match of the Day, with this morning’s paper, and a nice cup of tea.

It’s when this happens…. Emma, and ‘Mystique’ (without the blue body paint) decide to get into my bed ‘for some company’…. I don’t need this. I’ve still not got any physical or mental control over certain parts of my body.

I’m in my own bed, I’ve no clothes on. I’m trying desperately to focus on Martin Keown talking about Andy Carroll’s hair. The girl to the left of me, is a body double for a smoking hot blue mutant. I’ve got to get out of here, but there’s no way I can actually get up. There’s no way I can actually get out of bed.

The ultimate test. I’ve done 32 days. I’m not giving up now, when the days left are single figures. I just don’t want to think about figures. I don’t want to think of anything at all. Andy Carroll’s hair. Andy Carroll’s hair. Andy Carroll’s hair. Andy Carroll’s hair.

A few hours later, and I find myself, (re-grown virginity intact) stood in front of the Good Times sound system sinking Red Stripe at a rate of knots, and not thinking about the scantily clad blue mutant that’s still in my bed. The suns out, and despite a small downpour early doors, women aren’t wearing much. The aforementioned small downpour has actually added to the lack of clothes rendering the majority of them see-through. Time for a house party, some more Red Stripe, a curry, some more Red Stripe, and a lie-in on Monday morning.

What a weekend. It’s now Tuesday morning. It’s day 33. THIRTY THREE days. I don’t think I’ve ever given anything up for this long, least not one of the things I love most. One week from today, and it’ll be the first day of the rest of my life.

I can’t wait.

Day 29. Whispers in the kitchen.

There was definitely some raised eyebrows this morning when I walked in, and the conversation swiftly moved to “How’s day 29 going so far?” This is going to be relentless. When I walk into the kitchen the whispers stop, and people rush out giggling. It’s supposed to be work, not some support group for my painstaking restraints.

I’ve got a feeling it’s not going to get any better either. There’s already been discussions of ‘more short skirts and heels’ just to see what happens to me. I’ll tell you what will happen, I’ll be turning up to work in a blindfold and handcuffs… sounds worryingly close to how Max Mosely would go to work.

I’m looking forward to the Bank Holiday Weekender even more now. It’s going to spiral out of control fairly quickly with plans looking something along the lines of… Football tonight, a 6.30pm kick-off, which means hangover tomorrow morning. Local pints Friday night, nothing to strenuous with the groom I’m soon to be Best Man for. Saturday starts with a Birthday lunch, which just means early drinking. My partner in crime, I’m going to refer to him as Darragh (mainly because that’s his name) arrives Saturday afternoon, drinking shall be done in Borough Market, then off to see Noel Watson and Danny Krivit. Ouch. Sunday will probably taste like death, but I’m still holding out for the sun to be shining and everyone’s off to the Good Times fun bus at Notting Hill. Monday, exactly the same. Tuesday, probably suicide fairly early in the morning.

I can feel the hangover already. But there’s not a hope in hell I’ll be thinking of anything other than Redstripe and music for the next 72 hours, which can only be a good thing.

There’s nothing to report otherwise. It’s going to be a hellish 12 days at work, but one can always drink their way through that.

I was told yesterday that it would be good to ‘stay friends’…. I agree, but it’s a utter pile of shite that phrase. “Can we still be friends?”……. Fuck off. It’s like saying “The Dog’s died, but can we keep it?” Essentially what you want to ask is “If we bump into each other randomly somewhere, can we be civil?” Not a problem, just don’t expect a Christmas card.

Day 28. Lets Drink.

It’s almost the end of the week. I cannot wait for a million women dressed only in feathers at this year’s Notting Hill Carnival.

This coming weekend is one of epic proportions I’ve not seen in London for a long time. Danny Krivit…? Check. Noel Watson….? Check. Norman Jay….? Check. My drinking partner from the past 10 years, the one man that can get me drunker than any other...? Check. I’m a fever of excitement right now.

In the meantime though, I’ve got days 28 and 29 to get through. Wednesday and Thursday as they’re more commonly known.

Day 28 today. This has been going for a month. 4 long weeks.

The day unfolded at a fairly normal pace, and descended into a booze driven nightmare.

It started at a networking lunch, one of those things where you turn up, talk to boring people about everything apart from exciting subjects, drink too much wine, and then attempt to go back to work and prove it was all worthwhile. It wasn’t.

Once that was over I was informed that two of the young girls from the office were leaving and as such "drinks" would happen in the pub around the corner from 6pm.

“Drinks” I hate that phrase. What does it even mean? I’ll tell you. It means drinking your body weight in Guinness and telling everyone in the office about how proud you are you’ve not touched a woman, nor yourself for a month – oops.

It all spiralled out of control when one of them over heard me on the phone, talking about the situation to someone that has been a massive help. It turns out girls don’t keep secrets, and by the time I’d finished the call and made my way back to our table it was the must talk about subject. Trying to explain this to anyone is pretty tricky without sounding like an arrogant twat, sex pest, or weirdo. Trying to explain it to a room full of girls I’m going to see tomorrow, in a sober and professional situation…. Not that much fun.

Fortunately, in that alpha male way, once the conversation was solely focused on my sex(less)-life the rest of the chaps came swinging in with stories of old trying to hold court, brilliant. I managed to come out of it looking alright. One of the girls even said it was ‘admirable.’ I’m not so sure about that, but at least I’ve never shallow fried a gold-fish in whiskey before swallowing it whole.

Back in bed now, things are going to hurt tomorrow, but as long as there’s no whispering and giggling when I walk into the office everything will be just fine.