Andy’s story part 1 – Never again!

MY LIFE, HAPPY-AF

It was 1 AM on a Saturday night in Kilkenny, Ireland — the spiritual home of drinking — and I was on the dance floor with my wife and my best mates in the world. One of the lads had just grabbed the mic with zero warning, guitar in hand, and was now blowing the roof off the place. One of those magic, unplanned moments that brand themselves into your memory forever.

I looked around at the smiles, the laughter, the music, the energy — I was in love with the world, with my friends, with the moment. And here I was, right in the centre of it all, actually dancing.

And the wildest part?

I was stone-cold sober.

And so was the guy singing.

For 99% of the male population, the idea of sober dancing is enough to trigger an immediate, tactical retreat. Dancing is for drunk dads or people on ecstasy, right? But somehow, here I was — arms flying, legs doing whatever they wanted — looking like I was mid-seizure but loving it anyway.

As a ginger, this goes against every natural law of the universe. Gingers are not known for their dance-floor dominance. And I was absolutely uncomfortable — and probably always will be — but it didn’t matter. Because for me, this was the final frontier. If I could dance sober, awkward and rhythm-free, then my transformation was real.

I’d completed one full year without beer.

And suddenly, there was nothing I couldn’t do.

THREE YEARS EARLIER

Three years prior, I woke up and muttered those immortal words:

“Never again.”

Only this time, I meant it — even though I’d “meant it” at least five hundred times before. Sundays, Thursdays, Fridays, the occasional Tuesday… (Monday-night drinking is never a good idea).

I was preparing for another day of self-loathing on the sofa, ready to cry at X-Factor reruns or any dog with a slightly sad limp. And then it hit me:

I wasn’t living — I was existing.

Every day felt like a slow-motion hangover.

Tired.

Anxious.

Flat.

Just… off.

There was a cloud permanently hanging over me, raining all over my life. I wasn’t depressed. I wasn’t an alcoholic. I was just completely bored of booze — bored of the monotonous loop:

Drink → hangover → repeat.

Groundhog Day, but with less character development.

One or two days a week I’d feel halfway decent… only to wreck it all with another long lunch or heavy night. Weekends were a write-off. I’d need a siesta on both days just to survive the week’s damage.

For a former professional athlete, that was brutal to admit.

SOCIALLY BRAINWASHED

The worst part?

I knew exactly what the problem was —

but I had no idea how to stop.

Drinking was part of my identity.

Part of my image.

Part of how people described me.

I was the “big drinker”.

Always first in.

Always last out.

The fun guy.

The life of the party.

On my wedding day, my brother joked that aside from my beautiful wife, there was only one other love in my life — a blonde named Stella. And the crowd laughed because it was true.

For me, one drink was too many and twenty was not enough.

I wasn’t an alcoholic — that’s important.

I had a good job, a loving family, never missed a day of work.

But I felt myself slipping, and I couldn’t stop it.

People love to say “drink responsibly”.

Great advice for people who actually can.

But if you’re a binge drinker?

That advice is utterly useless.

I knew all the reasons to stop.

I knew all the reasons to moderate.

And yet every time I went out, the wheels came off.

Every. Single. Time.

I tried every strategy:

• bottles only

• wine only

• vodka & lime only

• strict pint limits

• slow drinking

• fast drinking

• no drinking until X time

All roads led to the same destination:

One massive session.

Followed by the same miserable loop of hangover → self-loathing → repeat.

Something had to change.

I just didn’t know what.

So I went searching — and what I discovered changed the entire course of my life.

DISCOVER PART 2 LATER THIS WEEK

An ordinary challenge became the spark that reshaped everything.

Health.

Energy.

Mindset.

Relationships.

Identity.

All because I decided to stop existing — and start living.

Thank you for your time,

Andy Ramage