Wet January: I drank 41 units of booze every morning for a week

As a big fuck you to the idea of Dry January, I took part in Wet January. It involves getting absolutely wheelbarrowed from the moment you wake up first thing in the morning to the moment you get into bed for one week. For that week I was going to live, breathe and be alcohol.

I descended on Drinks2Go like a hawk, armed with a debit card and a shopping list longer than a day with James Blunt. Shopkeeper Chris managed to find everything I needed – I was walking away with an exciting mix of park-bench booze.

For the week of liver punching, I dropped £100 quid on 64 beers, eight bottles of white wine, one bottle of red wine, one small bottle of vodka, one big bottle of vodka and two bottles of Buckfast. By my calculations I would be aiming to drink an average of around 41 units a day.

I got into it as soon as I woke up – I’m talking 10am on the dot. My first swig was a full bodied red. I’d say it was sweet and aromatic. It’s delectable smoothness delivered a rich earthy flavour. 8/10. The bottle read “perfect as a before or after dinner drink.” What it didn’t tell me is how well it compliments marmite on toast.

Being the first day, it was pretty easy-going and uninteresting. In fact, I actually looked quite cool with a glass of red at lunch.

I woke up the next day largely without any kind of hangover. The drinking was relatively easy over a day-long period and I wasn’t that dehydrated yet. Actually, it was getting quite exciting. I’d become a better version of myself. The centre of attention, the protagonist of everyone’s snapchat stories, the most classic housemate.

At this point the relentless stomach cramps and shitting couldn’t stop me. I had a pretty serious case of beeriod but not even the armies of Mordor could bring me down.

Waking up on the third day was more challenging. My motor skills have started to decline dramatically. I’ve got the delicacy of a sledgehammer whenever I try and pick something up or type and I’m starting to feel like I was kicked in the intestines by God. When will it end? What if never wears off? I was less than half way through.

The damage to my mind, body and soul by the fourth day far meant I was moving and speaking in the style of the Elephant man for the entire morning. I ended up going to FAB and upped my alcohol intake dramatically. I even branched out to spirits. Needless to say, I shouldn’t have.

By day five I don’t know what’s real any more. I literally can’t tell drunk from sober and my friends don’t even recognise me. I think my girlfriend hates me.

It’s hard to believe that I actually made it to university on day six. I had my first command seminar, which involved a quiz on different military commanders from the past. Unfortunately, my memory was completely scorched, and so I sat back in my chair, utterly gazeboed. Another day, another type of hangover. Today was seasick – the ground beneath me started to feel like an ocean of asphalt. Help.

Have I been hit by a freight train? No it’s just the last day of this stupid fucking week. Out of bed I begrudgingly crawl and grab my first delicious drink of cider. The apples come all the way from Somerset and are hand picked but all I can taste is desperation and regret.

I didn’t make it in for my seminar. I went to the toilet after managing to stand up, and whilst I stood there streaming like the Fountain of Trevi, I was horrified that my urine had surpassed dark yellow and hit full on dark brown.

The next few hours were testing. Soon I’d be able to go back to drinking fluids that don’t make my insides feel like a beaten up bag of bleach.

I stumbled around Stupid Tuesdays for a bit, but I didn’t survive for long and had to cave and go home. That night I dreamed about wet, slippery iced water in and around my mouth.

And in case you were about to rinse me for being a self indulgent wanker, I’m donating to a charity aiding those suffering from substance addiction, because, let’s be honest, you’ve kind of got to be an addict to see giving up alcohol for a month as being similar to the kind of sacrifice that people make when they, say, take part in a 10k run.