by Paul Carr
I was joking, of course, but there was truth in that introduction. I was pretty sure that it would be just a matter of time before I did something stupid, and ended up fired again. But in the meantime, news of TechCrunch’s latest ‘hard-drinking’ hire got around quickly and almost immediately the party invitations started back up again – as well as emails from PRs who decided that the way to my heart would probably be through my liver. In the week after the first column, no fewer than four separate PRs invited me to drinks, each of them mentioning rum. I had to at least give them credit for doing their homework.
Still, I resisted the invitations. I had lunch with Sarah, with Scott and with Eris and with a few other friends I hadn’t seen for far too long, but generally stayed locked away in my hotel room. I decided that the best way to avoid drinking was to avoid temptation – so instead I bought a new notepad and began sketching out a plan for the new book. There was no reason why my calming down for a while should stop me writing a book telling others how to do the opposite. I saw the book as a kind of lifestyle manual – part (in deference to my publisher) blagger’s guide but also part manifesto; encouraging others to follow in my footsteps, at least as far as living in hotels goes. Having lived that way for seventeen months, I couldn’t imagine ever going back to renting an apartment; at least not until I got married to a girl who demanded her own cushions.
The Kings of the Road Club name had stuck; both as a working title for the book, but also among those people I know who had either joined it or were seriously considering doing so. Eris was the latest recruit; over lunch she told me that she’d decided to quit her ridiculously high-paying job and, inspired by my travels, was going to hit the road in search of adventure. I happily gave her the benefit of my advice: which was basically not to plan anything in advance, as she’d probably wake up naked in a hotel corridor and fuck everything up.
1504
There were some problems with advocating the life I’d led since leaving London.
As a freelance writer, I was able to work from anywhere and to focus my writing on whichever place I happened to find myself. Rob is an entrepreneur without any permanent employees, and so enjoyed similar freedom. Eris would be able to do freelance design work as she travelled, but even so she only intended to live nomadically for a few months before returning to San Francisco. The truth is, for most people living as a permanent nomad was at best impractical and at worst impossible; their jobs and other personal circumstances just don’t allow it. It seemed disingenuous at best – plain dishonest at worst – to write a book advocating a lifestyle that most people simply couldn’t replicate.
But then I started reading other so-called ‘lifestyle manuals’ and was amazed how often the lifestyle being described in them could only be achieved by someone who started with almost the exact same circumstances as the writer. And even then there was a marked contrast between what was written, and reality.
On my flight back to San Francisco from London, I’d reread Tim Ferriss’ The 4-Hour Workweek, which had gone on to become a New York Times Best Seller. Since first reading the book in San Diego, I’d seen Tim at various conferences and had heard him talk about how one of the best ways to cut down on your work load is to say ‘no’ to things. In fact, I’d run into him at ETech, at South by Southwest, at TechCrunch 50, at LeWeb and at about half a dozen other events. Coupled with his daily blog, TV and radio appearances and guest articles in the press, I’d say, at a conservative estimate, Tim Ferriss spends about a hundred hours a week promoting his four-hour-a-week work life.
The point, I suppose, is not that you’re supposed to live exactly as Tim describes in his book – but rather that you draw inspiration from his overall message, picking the elements that you can apply to your own life.
Once I understood the secret behind lifestyle manuals: that they’re basically bullshit, it was like I’d unlocked the gate to a magical garden. It wasn’t just the 4-Hour Workweek: every aspirational media brand in the world worked the same way. No one, apart from Hugh Hefner, can possibly live the way that Playboy describes, but the magazine was successful because it was just convincing enough that every reader believed buying a copy was the first step to living an unobtainable dream. No one who reads Vogue can afford to buy all the clothes in its pages, but they can buy the magazine and maybe one pair of shoes and feel like they’re on their way. No one who reads Tim Ferriss’ book can work just four hours a week, but they can buy the dream. My book would work the same way: no one who read it would be able to abandon their flat, live in hotels around the world, blag their way into ridiculous situations and still remain alive and employed – but they could do some of it. The living in hotels aspect, for example, is perfectly viable in most cities, even if you have an office job and no intention of travelling.
This realisation also helped with my second problem: my lifestyle hadn’t even been sustainable for me. In fact, it had nearly killed me, along with driving away friends and getting me arrested. But those were minor details that could be safely ignored in the book – I’d just big-up the good times and the one-night stands while ignoring the hangovers and the screaming outside ex-girlfriends’ flats. It wasn’t like anyone was going to be dumb enough to mimic me. Satisfied with my plan, I started sketching out some chapter headings. As long as I kept away from booze, I’d easily have the thing finished by December.
Chapter 1600
Once You’re Lucky
The cravings were the worst thing. Three weeks without a drink and alcohol was all I could think about. I’d started going to parties again – I was trying to focus on serious issues in my column, but there’s some information that you can only get from drunk people – and amazingly I’d managed to stick to water and Diet Coke throughout. As much as my sobriety was about keeping productive, it was just as much about not letting Robert and Sarah down.
Robert’s pep talk at Butlins had not come easily to him: he’d always been hugely supportive of my drinking, and I could see he thought he’d helped create a monster. Sarah had put herself out on a limb to get me the job at TechCrunch and I’d made her a promise that I’d quit drinking and work hard. San Francisco is a small town – precisely seven miles by seven miles – and I knew that if I started drinking again, she’d hear about it – and so by extension would Robert. Knowing that kept me honest; frankly, I wasn’t sure I had the willpower on my own. Every time a beer commercial came on TV, I’d salivate. I was Pavlov’s drunk.
1601
My first ‘fuck-up’ was a combination of factors. Factor one: a group of Brit entrepreneurs arrived in town from London and invited me for a drink to pitch their new company for a mention on Tech-Crunch. Factor two: they suggested a bar that I’d never been to before, not somewhere frequented by any of my San Francisco friends. Factor three: Sarah had starting researching her new book, and so was spending most of her time in other countries, away from the San Francisco gossip circle. I almost certainly could have got away with drinking occasionally and neither she nor Robert would ever find out.
In hindsight, I should have realised that this was a combination of factors too risky for someone who was starting to appreciate that maybe doing without alcohol wasn’t as easy as he’d thought.
But I’d managed to stay sober this long – three whole weeks – and, hell, going to a place where I could get away with drinking – if I wanted to – would be the perfect test of my willpower. There was no reason I couldn’t stick to Diet Coke all night. And so I would.
The evening of the meeting came around and I sat in the bar, drinking black fizzy water by the gallon, as the three entrepreneurs told me all about their business. Their idea didn’t quite warrant a whole column, but I promised to keep an eye on them, and would write about them if they secured funding and started to expand. The business portion of the meeting over, the conversation soon turned social – gossip from London, that kind of thing. The entrepreneurs ordered shots, but I stuck to Diet Coke. It was 11p.m. and I was totally sober. And
then it happened – such a stupid thing: someone messed up a bar order and came back to the table with four pints of Stella and a Diet Coke instead of three pints and a Diet Coke.
The pint just sat there, looking at me.
I looked back.
Just the one. I could wash it down with the Diet Coke; no one would ever know.
‘Help yourself,’ said one of the entrepreneurs. ‘It’ll just go to waste otherwise.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘thank you.’
1602
‘I woke up …’
Ah, fuck.
1603
The guilt I felt the next morning was worse than any guilt I’d ever felt after any previous night of drinking. Worse than the morning after showing up at Karen’s house, and worse even than either of the two mornings I’d woken up in a cell. Or at least it was a different kind of guilt: not for my behaviour – I hadn’t actually done anything bad – but for the first time in my life, the guilt was for the act of drinking itself.
For one thing, I’d let down Sarah and Robert, and everyone else who had for the past few weeks patted me on the back and congratulated me for cutting out the booze. But also, trite as it is to say, I’d let myself down – badly. Up until that night I’d always assumed that I didn’t need to drink; that it was an active choice I was making in order to make my night more relaxing or fun. But I’d made it to eleven o’clock last night without drinking; I could have gone home and the night would still have been a success. And yet I still had the drink.
Worse than that, after a couple more beers the entrepreneurs had gone back to their hotel. But I’d stayed in the bar; just me and a roomful of strangers, drinking until closing time. As I’d ordered my second beer I remember thinking ‘well, I’ve had one now; I’ve fallen off the wagon, I might as well make the most of it.’ But the truth is, I couldn’t stop. Physically could not stop. I had to keep drinking until I was drunk.
1604
And, of course, it happened again. I’d got away with it the first time and I’d sworn to myself that it was just a blip. I’d tested myself, and I’d failed, so next time I’d avoid the situation.
But then my friend Richard came to visit, and suggested we catch up over a Sierra Nevada. He specifically mentioned the brand; it was one of the things he liked best about coming to San Francisco. It was rude not to join him for one. Just one.
But then it was Oktoberfest in San Francisco, and my friend Andy was in town. I couldn’t not see him and, well, you can’t not have a beer at Oktoberfest. Just one.
And on and on and on, until I was actively watching Twitter and Facebook and anywhere else on the Internet where my Brit friends detailed their travel plans. Coming to San Francisco? Let’s go for a beer – I know an out-of-the-way place.
My ‘lapses’ – and I still thought of them as that – only happened about once a week and they weren’t affecting my work. Nor was anyone important in San Francisco seeing them. I convinced myself that was the main thing: that I wasn’t embarrassing myself, or anyone. I was just having a drink, like everyone else does. Except when everyone else went home, I couldn’t stop. I’d just sit at the bar, drinking on my own, making the most of it because I didn’t know when my next excuse would roll into town.
I think I was the last person to realise that I was the dictionary definition of an alcoholic, and the only person to be surprised when it turned out that I couldn’t quit. And yet it baffled me. Like any addict, I’d assumed that I could just stop whenever I wanted to. That it was just a social prop. I never got drunk on my own. Or at least I didn’t get drunk on my own until that was the only way I could get away with it. Then I did.
It was only a matter of time before I got caught.
Chapter 1700
Twice You’re Screwed
I’d been out for dinner with Kelly. We hadn’t seen each other for a while, and she was one of the few people I knew I could trust to drink with me in San Francisco without telling anyone. In American psychology-speak she was ‘an enabler’ – in London she’d be called ‘a drinking buddy’. We started out easy, with just a few glasses of wine with dinner but by 1 a.m. we’d worked our way through several rounds of rum (me) and vodka (her). I was doing the lion’s share of the drinking and at some point she’d decided to leave me to it.
I made it back to my hotel not long after 2 a.m. I’d got away with it for another night; aside from Kelly, no one else in San Francisco knew I was drinking. Robert was safely in London and Sarah was on another research trip: this time to Beijing. I staggered into my room and had just crawled into bed when my phone rang. It was an unknown number. I knew it wouldn’t be Sarah at 2 a.m., especially not calling from China, and Robert never called me on my mobile because he knew I’d get hit with the roaming charges.
In my drunken haze, then, I reasoned that this made it safe for me to answer. It might have been a girl; or, even better, it might have been another drink.
‘Hello,’ I slurred.
‘Hey!’
Shit.
1701
It was Sarah, calling from China. She’d calculated the time difference wrong and thought she was calling me in the early evening.
I should have hung up. And, had I not been drunk, I would have done. But like a teenager arriving home from a party and trying to hide the fact that he’d been drinking, I thought I could get away with it. ‘Oh, hi, it’s you, hello’ I slurred – or at least I imagine I tried to.
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Yes,’ I should have said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘what makes you shay that?
Ten minutes later, Sarah hung up. I know this because that’s what my phone told me the next morning. I also know that because Sarah had thoughtfully emailed me a summary of the conversation, assuming that I’d have forgotten most of it.
It wasn’t that I’d been drinking that annoyed her. She’d always said she didn’t think I’d be able to quit without getting help. It was the fact that I’d lied about it and then – apparently – blamed her for falsely accusing me, even though I could barely form the words to do so.
As she put it in her email, she wasn’t angry, she just doesn’t really like being yelled at by Drunk Paul when all she was doing was calling to see how I was getting on with my book.
1702
Every recovering alcoholic I’ve spoken to since that moment has told me about the moment they hit ‘rock bottom’. The moment they knew they had to get help to quit, because they just weren’t capable of doing it themselves. Speaking to Sarah that night was my moment. I knew that she would almost certainly mention the incident to Robert next time they spoke, and that even if she wasn’t mad, I’d get a lecture from him. About how Sarah had risked her own professional reputation to vouch for me, and that I was throwing it back at her, while fucking up my health at the same time. He’d dress it up as being worried about me, of course, and he’d probably make a joke, but I knew I’d let them both down, badly.
It was also the moment that I understood – really understood – that I couldn’t quit on my own.
It was time to get help, and I knew where to get it.
1703
I first met Ruth Fowler in 2006 when she was working as a stripper, and I was pretending to be a publisher. Specifically, she was a Cambridge graduate who had grown up in Wales but had decided to smuggle her way into America to work illegally as a stripper in one of the most prestigious strip clubs in Manhattan and blog about the experience. I had been sent to New York to convince Ruth that ours should be the company to publish her book based on that blog.
I didn’t succeed in securing the book rights, but Ruth and I became good friends; a friendship that had grown over the years as she’d stopped stripping, become a published author, moved back to London, moved legally to Los Angeles to work as a screenwriter, decided to quit drinking, joined Alcoholics Anonymous and recently celebrated her seventh month sober. As people in AA are wont to do, she’d emailed every so often t
o encourage me to attend a meeting. She could recognise the signs, she said. As people who don’t realise they’re alcoholics are wont to do, I brushed her off, pointing out that I wasn’t an alcoholic, I just enjoyed drinking.
But now that I was finally ready to admit that I had a serious problem, I knew it was time to find out more about AA. I couldn’t bear to call Ruth and admit that she was right and I was wrong. So I emailed her. Just one line.
‘Hey – if I come to LA – will you come with me to an AA meeting?’
She emailed back in less than five minutes.
‘Yes. Come now.’
1704
There were AA meetings in San Francisco, of course – dozens of them, according to the Internet – but I had two very good reasons for wanting to travel to Los Angeles instead. For a start, going to a meeting in LA meant that Ruth could come with me. I knew that if I tried to go on my own then I’d put it off, first for a day or two while I picked the meeting that sounded best for me, then for a few more days while I wrote that week’s column, then for a week or so because, hell, there was no rush. Soon I’d be back drinking again.
The second reason was that, by going to LA, there was little to no chance anyone in San Francisco would find out.
The idea of going to Alcoholics Anonymous embarrassed me. This was an organisation that was the exact opposite of everything I’d stood for. For one thing, I’d made no secret of my drinking. In fact, I’d so been proud of it that I’d made it one of my defining professional characteristics. Even when I’d started writing for Tech-Crunch and had ostensibly given up, I had still continued to cultivate a fictitious drunken persona. The last thing I wanted was for readers to find out that not only was my drinking so out of control that I’d had to quit, but that I’d actually joined AA to help me do it. My ego just couldn’t stand it.