My own alcohol shame and why unit pricing is less important than cuts to addiction services - Euan McColm

As alcohol related deaths rise again, debate about pricing is less important than cuts to addiction services for those who desperately need help

The first time I fall down drunk, I’m doing a Bavarian knee-slapping dance in front of an audience of pensioners at a Christmas party in my suburban secondary. I’m 13 years old.

Every December, the elderly residents of a local sheltered housing complex are invited to endure a variety show – including, on this occasion, a performance by members of my German class – in the school’s assembly hall. The quid pro quo for the forbearance of those in attendance is that they’re fed and watered.

Incorrectly identified by a teacher as a responsible child, I’m asked to pour sherries for our guests.

Euan McColm gave up drinking at 31and believes that, had he not, he would not be alive today. Picture: Getty Images

During this process, I tip four glasses of Croft Original into my beaker of Kia-Ora. I gulp down the sickly-sweet contents before taking to the stage with my classmates.

The performance begins with us facing the audience, slapping our knees in time to the music. This bit goes fine but when it come to the part when we’ve to leap in the air, twist, then land facing a partner, I’ve lost full control. I clatter down on my arse.

Shocked, I jump back to my feet and make it to the end of the performance. Afterwards, I wave away a concerned teacher – “I’m fine, I’m fine” – for to let her get too close risks the possibility that she’ll detect the smell of booze on my breath.

I don’t wake up the next morning desperate for a drink, but a switch has flipped. I start thinking about how and when I can get pissed again. I go on to have an appalling attendance record, missing classes to drink or returning to bed to sleep things off after my parents leave home in the morning.

On my first day as a trainee journalist in the Glasgow office of The Sunday Post, older colleagues take me to the pub at lunchtime. I sink five pints in an hour and, on returning to work, learn that we’re to have a “state visit” from a member of the DC Thomson publishing dynasty. On the advice of a new workmate, I spend most of the afternoon dozing in a cubicle in the gents. I’m 18 years old.

Over the next few years, I push down my feelings of shame. My father is an alcoholic and I’ve previously been forthright to the point of cruelty in my criticism of him. I tell myself I’m not the same. I can stop whenever I want and, if it ever becomes a problem, I will.

I’m lying to myself. It's been a problem for some time.

Over the next few years, I gain a reputation among colleagues as a drunk. It’s not easy to do this in the newspaper game, where booze flows endlessly. I leave jobs before I’m pushed and, after short spells in various places, end up working for a Sunday paper in the north-east of England.

I wake up in my attic flat in Darlington, my head throbbing and the taste of blood in my mouth. I make it to the bathroom before I throw up and then look at myself in the mirror. My face is swollen, cut and bruised. I have no idea how it happened. I’m 25 years old.

I start – in lucid moments – being honest with myself. I know I have to stop drinking before something truly terrible happens.

But every day I go to the pub or, when money is tight, buy cheap wine and cider to drink alone at home. And every morning, I wake full of regret and self-loathing.

I return to Glasgow two years later and – despite my chaotic lifestyle – secure a series of increasingly senior and well-paid positions on a number of newspapers.

I’m on a date with a woman in an expensive city centre restaurant. We get through two bottles of wine before heading on to a nearby cocktail bar where we find seats in a discreet corner. After an hour or so, I get up to go to the loo and manage to tip over our table, sending drinks flying.

We’re invited to leave, and I wake the next morning, curled up on the floor of my date’s bedroom. She thinks it’s all quite funny – one of those wild nights that makes for a decent story. I, on the other hand, am consumed by guilt. I leave and go to the pub.

The next day, I head back to my local for a lunchtime Guinness. The barman places it in front of me and I pause. Something tells me not to pick it up. I walk away. I don’t drink again. I’m 31 years old.

A few months later, drink ends my Dad’s life. He’s 62 years old.

Last week, we learned of yet another increase in the number of Scots whose deaths were alcohol related. Latest figures show 1,276 people lost their lives to the bottle in 2022. It was the highest death rate in 14 years.

If I hadn’t walked out of the Ubiquitous Chip without touching that pint 22 years ago, I'm certain I’d have been a statistic by now.

If my story doesn’t chime at all with you, I promise it will with someone you know.

Over recent days, there’s been much discussion over whether the minimum alcohol unit pricing policy is working. I feel the conversation should, instead, be about the fact that, between 2007-2019, there was a real terms cut in the budget for addiction services from £114million to £53m.

There are no easy answers, here, but if politicians are serious about tackling this crisis, a good start would be proper investment in support for those who desperately need help.