Sobriety is bad for my health

Another Saturday night and I'm laying in a crumpled, semi-nude mess at the foot of a staircase, covered in bruises, curry sauce and the foul stench of indignity.

Wasn't this just the sort of sorry predicament I had vowed to expunge from my new life as a responsible father? God knows I've tried my best.

Saturday had started out with such virtuous intentions. Up with the lark; a bowl of muesli; a brisk run; work and then a visit to mum's. There are Trappist monks who keep to a less puritanical itinerary than that. I even swapped going to football for a four-year-old's birthday party in a church hall.

As I strolled home in the afternoon sunshine, pushing the littl'un along with a curious sense of sober frivolity, I thought to myself, "You've earned yourself a treat, young man."

And so I got a takeaway curry. And ate it in bed. In front of Match of the Day. In my dressing gown. Hey, judge me if you wish but you were the ones getting spannered on alcopops and making idiots of yourselves on Saturday night, not me.

Trouble is, when you're as clumsy as I am, you don't need booze to make an idiot of yourself.

"Any seconds?" I called down greedily to my wife as I made for the stairs with my half-finished plate. But she never got a chance to answer. My arse, head and goolies must have hit every step twice on the way down those stairs.

I think I've got internal carpet burns (not to mention a piece of okra wedged where it shouldn't be). From now on, I'll play it safe and just hit the boozer on Saturdays. ·