I first came to A.A. in 1996. My drinking was getting out of control. The circumstances were painful, so I moved from East London to Birmingham to study. I was about 22 years old. I thought I might be able to moderate my drinking; I believed an external factor would stop me, and I convinced myself that everyone there would see me as a non-drinker. But by the end of the first weekend everyone saw I was a drinker. I got drunk and blacked out. The change of location didn’t work; it simply gave me the licence to go wild for another six months.
A few weeks into my stay, an external speaker was brought to the university; it was someone from A.A. doing public information. He talked for 90 minutes, half of it was his story, and the other half was about A.A. and how it works. I identified with the guy and remember the weight of the loneliness dropping off my shoulders, replaced with a little bit of hope. He described my drinking, my fears, my mind, and my feelings, yet he was happy. He said there is a way to do this, and it isn’t about luck. As he spoke of the A.A. fellowship, it appealed to me. I spoke to him after, and he arranged to take me to a meeting the following week.
My first meeting was on a Saturday afternoon in Birmingham. It was a large, buzzing meeting. It struck me there were happy people, and I wanted to be one of them. I will be forever grateful because they geared the meeting towards me and another newcomer, and nearly everyone welcomed us by name. They spoke about what happens when they put a drink inside them. I realised that was it – I had never heard that before. When I drink, I cannot stop, and it triggers an overwhelming craving … I held on to that. Although I drank for another three or four years, I was able to hold onto the feeling I belonged there, that there was some hope. I stayed at the university for about 18 months, occasionally going to A.A. and staying off it for a few weeks here and there. It became untenable and came back to Canning Town.
I think my first meeting in London was East Ham on a Monday night. I was frightened to go on my own, so I convinced one of my drinking mates to come, hoping he was an alcoholic because I didn’t want to be alone, but he isn’t; he doesn’t have the allergy. Time has shown he isn’t one. We sat in the corner. I don’t remember much of that meeting except that ‘Tall’ Mick was there and the cigarette smoke was so thick that you couldn’t see from one end of the room to the other. I remember one fella turning up late, sitting down, and his cigarette setting fire to the polystyrene cup.
I would later go to the Isle of Dogs meeting on a Monday evening. The church had choir practice on Mondays, and I swear they were singing Handel’s Messiah the day I came. There were two older women there and despite me being scared of one they both genuinely cared how I was. I never turned up drunk, but had been drinking. One evening I came to the Isle of Dogs after being beaten up following a night of drinking in Stratford. The two women were so worried they shared advice about being careful who to be around. I thought my mates ain’t like that. What this meeting gave me was the kindness of the two women. My self-hatred was deep; what they gave me was needed.
One night, Denis and Kevin gave me a lift home and Denis told me to come to Stratford on Friday night. He said it’s his homegroup and he’s there every week so I went … six months later. Funnily enough, Denis wasn’t there. At this meeting, ‘Organiser’ John (who wasn’t shy about telling you what he thought you should do) made me sit at the front. The meeting needed a tea maker, and John looked at me and said, ‘he’ll do it.’ I agreed. I was told to go to Forest Gate on Saturday, so I duly went. It was near where I was born. At that meeting, they said to go to the Mayflower on Sunday, so I did. I used to go to nursery there. I did my first chair there at three months sober.
I had no job and didn’t know what to do so went to a meeting every day. After the Saturday meeting in Forest Gate, we would go to the café, and Kevin would buy me breakfast. Those acts of kindness were a big deal – I didn’t have any money. Kevin told me, ‘This ain’t my money – A.A. has given me this money’. I got so much help sitting around those tables in the café. Kevin said, ‘You’ll always be looked after; something will always crop up’. He turned to a fella called Micky R and asked him if he’d been looked after. Mick replied, ‘always’. That kept me going until the next meeting. There I met Jean. Jean was so kind; she had a soft spot for a lot of us. Jean would always say something nice to me. I learned a lot from her, and today I try to pass on her love.
I began going to East Ham on a Monday. One evening, they had a group conscience about making the meeting non-smoking. I thought people were going to bring out weapons. They decided to have one half smoking and the other non-smoking. That didn’t work out. Regardless, I was getting to know people, but still afraid of what they thought of me. ‘Tall’ Mick would give me a lift home if Joe wasn’t at the meeting, and Mick’s kindness was evident. He always gave me time and often talked me down from the ledge by sitting with me, sometimes right into the night. The only time I remember feeling relaxed was in the chairs at The Seaman’s Rest meeting. There, we listened to speaker tapes of posh people reading the 12×12. I’d just close my eyes …
I asked a guy to be my sponsor. He had peace, and I wanted peace. I found it hard to ask because I feared rejection. He would give me lifts to meetings and take me for coffee. When I did ask, he said he knew what was coming, but it needed to be me to ask; that is what it means by putting this first… putting it first, before my own fear, my own head. My thinking will get me out of A.A. Putting my recovery first means you do it anyway.
He took me through the programme the way it is in the book. No essays to write and no hoops to jump through. Steps 1, 2, and 3 were done quickly while Step 4 took a few months … which meant I wasn’t doing it. People would talk about this big experience with their Step 5, and I was worried, what if this doesn’t happen to me? I’d be fucked. I justified not doing it by thinking that I’d forget stuff. Yet I soon had pizza with an American couple from A.A. who told me that this is what Step 10 is for.
I did 4 and 5 to the best of my ability and went straight into 6 and 7. I’d had one resentment that I was pinning on a fella and was praying for him when, lo and behold, I bumped into him on a high street. We had a chat, and I felt nothing – it was freedom. It was what I always wanted. I asked my sponsor what the difference is between being sober and being dry, and he said, When I’m sober, anyone in the world could walk around the corner, and it wouldn’t bother me. When I’m dry, I’m frightened of who walks around the corner.
My amends were more about giving others time, but in 10, 11, and 12, I got lazy. I got a girlfriend, and being with her became more important than being in recovery. I had never been in a relationship. Welsh David, who would give it to you straight, would say things like, Mark, this isn’t a relationship, it’s an entanglement! And in hindsight, he was right. I wasn’t spending time in prayer or doing my morning programme, and I picked up a drink. I simply wasn’t in the program. Recovery wasn’t at the centre and I stopped being able to cope with the normal things in life.
After a year and a half being sober, I drank for one day in December 2000, and was gutted. The relationship ended and I was in despair. All I could think about was drinking. I went to loads of meetings, which was my saving grace. My sponsor said, Mark, when you share, if there is someone at their first meeting, share for them. As I was obsessing over how unhappy I was, the thought that I could go to a meeting and share kept me going through the day. I met a fella at his first meeting at Leytonstone on Tuesday night and immediately copped a resentment. I wanted to unload, but I was told to share for the newcomer, and did. I shared that life was better, which was true. I had been in my head all day, saying I will never know happiness and that A.A. doesn’t work, but I hadn’t drunk in over a year. I have learned that the journey from the false to the truth takes a lifetime.
I decided I was an atheist. I didn’t think there could be a God given I’m in this much pain. I went to A.A. begrudgingly and didn’t want anything to do with God. Despite all that, though, I wound up staying at a monastery with a mate in Leicestershire. Mount St Bernard – a beautiful old building. On the first night I was outside having a fag; full of resentment and wondering why I was here. It was so quiet, I needed noise. I was at the apex of self-pity. A guy in A.A. came outside and gave him both barrels. He said a lot of people at Mount St Bernard’s talk to this one particular monk, and if he ain’t around, there’s a second one. The next morning, I learned the main monk had gone on holiday, so I ended up with the second-best.
Still, he listened. I told him that as mad as things were when I was young, the two things that helped me were West Ham winning and serving on the altar at St. Margaret’s, Canning Town. I believed that God loved me, and the nuns there were incredible women who worked in the poorest places. Canning Town, sure, but some had also been prisoners of war in Burma. I told this monk that when I pray I feel nothing; it feels like he has deserted us.
The monk told me that many things are true regardless of what I think. He said it is the truth that the 12-step programme of A.A. works – it doesn’t matter what I think or feel. He also said, For all of us, it is a truth that there is a God who loves you completely, no matter what you think or what you feel. It’s always the truth.
Around that time, I started talking to ‘Tall’ Mick and Joe about meditation and to Paddy, the old fish-and-chip bloke at the Dellow centre, about faith. Faith is a decision, not a debate, Paddy once told me, so I decided not to debate God and that made it easier. I decided I would meditate rather than enter into it.
‘Posh’ John, his PC name, or call him JTC, he and I grew up in A.A. together. We were honest and open about things, and would laugh about them. I’ve found that laughing is powerful medicine, which takes the power out. Back in 2007, ‘Posh’ John, me, Zita and Malcolm set up the Thursday night meeting at Anchor House, but sadly, it’s no more. There aren’t as many A.A. dances anymore, which is a shame. Thanks to Harry and Angie, I found out I could have fun again, so hopefully the dances will come back.
East London A.A. has changed. Newham these days has fewer meetings, but Tower Hamlets has come alive and is buzzing. For me, A.A. is the best it has ever been. When I came around, there was resistance to the programme, but people are fully on board. They’re happy to talk about how their lives have improved as they have recovered from this brutal illness. My home group is Tuesday night at St Mary Le Bow, home of the Bow Bells, which is alive with recovery.
I was a mess, and now I sit in a living room. I pay rent, and I had a shower today. When you go through things in A.A., you gain this inner strength and resilience. You learn to experience pain, which comes and goes, and I don’t fear it anymore. I don’t fear my pain, and I don’t fear yours. I know I don’t have to fix yours – I just have to be present. I discovered that I can listen to people, be a friend, and be a son. I’m a husband to a beautiful wife, a dad to an amazing daughter who I adore and am proud of. I have the ability to love and to accept love today, and that’s such a great gift. I’m grateful for my faith and for being loved unconditionally by one who is perfect love, God.
This was done in Mark’s living room, where he pays rent. March 2026.
East London Archives of Alcoholics Anonymous. 