A trio of losses. 2 : 1989

The police car has been following us since we joined the main road and began our journey. I should not be concerned; after all I am driving carefully, concentrating hard and making sure that I observe the speed limit. I am indicating early, changing lanes cautiously and it would be faultless, commendable even - if not for the fact that I am also drunk.

Our journey will take thirty minutes if we go via the old Bath Road road, slightly less if we join the three lane motorway that skirts the southern edges of my home town. We decide on the latter, leave my house and wind our way down the hill with our police escort in tow. We have crossed the third mini roundabout and are maybe five minutes from the motorway access lane when the car behind begins to flash me. The message is clear; I am to slow down, pull over.

Mirror, signal, manoeuvre. We slow to a halt and I know for certain that this is it; that I am busted - and all I can think, over and over again, is thank god, thank god. It has been a mere two weeks since I have passed my driving test and this is not the first time I have knowingly sat behind the wheel of this car, driven it with excess alcohol in my bloodstream. It will prove to be my last.

The days of drunk-driving being tacitly tolerated by any swathe of society have long since passed by this summer night in August 1989. Everybody knows that it is wrong; that it impairs your reactions, your judgement and that you risk killing yourself and others. I know this as well as anyone, yet I am also becoming aware that I am incapable of saying no by this time. The logical and sensible solution is obvious to all, well-publicised in the media: either drink and leave your car behind or take your car, limit your consumption accordingly. The problem lies squarely with me, for I am beyond being logical or sensible at this time. In 1989 I am a mess waiting to unravel, my problems, fears and secrets hidden away on the back seat and jostling for seatbelt space. I have known for some time that I will neither stop driving nor limit my intake; that it will take an intervention or incident of some sort to finish me - and as the policeman leaves his car and walks towards mine, all I can feel is relief that it has finally arrived.

My roadside reading is sufficient and I am arrested, taken to the nearby police station. I have passed this building many times over the years, always wondered what it looked like behind the scenes and now I find my curiosity satisfied as I am given a grand and thorough tour. I am brought through the compound entrance, taken through a narrow tiled corridor and locked in a cell which is covered in obscence graffiti and reeks of disinfectant. Later I am moved to an interview room, then on to a new room for additional corroboratory tests. I blow two more readings into this new machine, a hulking and humming system which takes up half of the room - and it confirms that I am still illegal, that my alcohol level is in fact still rising. The police have all they need now. With all avenues exhausted and all formalities concluded, I am formally charged and permitted my one free phone call.

It is close to midnight as I pick up the receiver, dial my home number. My mother answers and I speak to her; try to persuade her that no, I am not joking and yes, I really do need picking up from the police station. Finally she arrives with my father and I am released into their custody. I go home, go to bed. I probably apologise at some stage but this is just lip service; a case of saying what people expect me to say. Deep down I cannot be sorry, merely grateful that it happened this way - because rightly or wrongly, this was always going to happen sooner or later. That it happened sooner, so painlessly and safely is both consoling and encumbering - and yet another secret to add to my already-heavy pile.

I appear in court three weeks later, wearing my one and only suit and my best shirt and tie. My father takes a rare day's holiday, accompanies me to court and frets enough for the two of us. I smoke his cigarettes, meet the duty solicitor to run through the facts of my case. There is no argument to offer and no real defence to propose. The driving ban and monetary fine are mere formalities and I hand the solicitor my driver's licence, take one last look at the printed pink document I was once so proud to obtain. I will not see it again for twelve months, nor will I learn any lasting lessons from this experience. I will get my drivers licence back the following year but it will be the best part of a decade before I finally stop being a passenger, before I finally take control and steer for myself.