Pint of ale? Goblet of wine? I'll raise a glass to sober life

It's been about 15 years since I last drank from Lucifer's cup. Actually, it's not. There was a brief relapse in a shepherd's hut on a Sardinian mountainside. But we'll talk about the juniper-infused grappa later.

Drink and I started our long and colourful relationship at the age of 13, over half a cider at the former Dudley Cricket Club. Dick Adey and my dad thought it would be a good idea to start me young. Cheers. Hic. It was. Fancy another?

There were youthful forays into the parents' drinks cupboard; I nicked the Dry Martini and my brother nicked the Tia Maria.

Drunken teenage nights found me on the mean streets of Tipton's Lost City, drinking Tennents Special and Carlsberg Extra, preceded by barley wine chasers.

The school strike of 1983 was a laugh, too. Me and my mate Simon spent our lunchtimes at his house, in Andrew Road, nicking his mother's vodka. We washed it down with orange or lime, to make sure the teachers wouldn't smell it on our breath. It was just a phase.

The phase, however, lasted for 15 long and inglorious years. A particularly memorable evening – actually, scratch that, the details were largely lost in a blizzard of the grain and grape . . .

An evening with colleagues after work ended at 10am the following morning when I awoke, dishevelled, with a mouth like the Sahara. I was in my bed, though I've no idea how I got there.

I tried standing up but couldn't. It took me an hour to crawl to the nearest shop where I procured a banana milkshake and rehydrated. Through trembling fingers, I called my boss: "Sorry," I croaked, sounding like a bad Harvey Keitel. "I won't be in today."

My boss and his foie gras-sized liver laughed. His response was atypically anarchic. "That's great. You know it's been a good night when you lose one of the troops along the way. See you when you're sober."

I kicked the booze after a night on the Bishop's Finger. The Bishop didn't mind, but I did. I'd transgressed one too many times though, thankfully, a pleasant lady called T seemed also to have been too drunk to remember. That's the night that booze's passport to my body was revoked.

My sobriety was called into question during a working trip to Sardinia. I'd been billeted by a national magazine to go and write about the island's exceptional food and drink.

On day three, the photographer and I were sitting with a shepherd on a hillside. He'd produced astonishingly good cheese and charcuterie, that he'd made from his own flock, when he pulled a small glass bottle from his belt.

"Now we drink," he said. I recoiled. Five years of self-discipline were about to be washed away by firewater. "Juniper-infused grappa," he said, as he popped his cork and poured me a tumbler. I drank and the heady liquid shot went straight to my cerebral cortex. "Good, no?" said the shepherd, filling my glass and smiling through blackened teeth.

I miss the sauce. In good restaurants, when wine and food are perfectly matched, I sit in silent envy and watch friends and colleagues indulge. And though I'd like to join them, I think better of it. My Rolodex of memories replays not-so-memorable moments of debauchery and ruinous behaviour. From time to time, I'm tempted to order a crisp Pouilly Fumé, a zesty Sauvignon or a classic claret. But then I say No. I'm still haunted by the Bishop's Finger.