OUR STORY
A simple question...
Who Wants a Pint started with one simple question on a village Facebook page and a bloke brave enough to ask it: “Who wants a pint?” The founder, Tom Gosling from Sawtry, expected a handful of replies and maybe a quiet table of four or five at The Greystones. Instead, the response absolutely exploded. Dozens of men liked, commented, messaged, and said they’d been really waiting for “something like this” but never quite had the excuse to finally show up. On a random Monday night, over twenty men walked into their local pub, most not knowing each other, all carrying their own stories, and discovered that just being together genuinely changed how they all felt.
Who Wants a Pint was never designed as a polished “initiative” or a clinical support group. It began as what men understand best: a simple excuse to get out of the house, grab a drink (whatever’s in the glass), chat rubbish, and accidentally have some of the most honest conversations of their lives. The name is tongue-in-cheek for a reason. Tom is a recovering alcoholic, so for him the “pint” isn’t about alcohol at all, it’s about that familiar phrase men use with each other to say, “Fancy some company?” Whether it’s water, coffee, juice or lager, the focus is the social space, not what’s in your hand.
Very quickly, a pattern emerged. Many of the men who turned up don’t like the idea of “burdening” family or friends. Formal therapy felt too big a step, but doing nothing wasn’t working either. Who Wants a Pint sits in that middle ground, a relaxed, safe, no-pressure setting where you can talk about football, work, grief, marriage, money, or absolutely nothing serious at all. Some come to open up, some just listen, some simply sit in a room full of other blokes and feel less alone. Almost every man who’s walked out has said, in their own words, that they felt lighter, clearer, and genuinely better than when they walked in.
The movement is mainly aimed at MEN, because that’s where the need first shouted the loudest and where Tom’s lived experience lies, male mental health, addiction, and the pressure to “man up”. But the heartbeat of Who Wants a Pint is simple: love everyone. No gender will be unwelcome, but hopefully as the idea grows, the hope is that other genders and communities will create their own safe spaces that work for them too. Not to divide people, but to give each group a place of familiarity, comfort, and real understanding.
From one Facebook post in a small village to a room full of men quietly rewriting what support can look like, Who Wants a Pint is proof that big change can start with a small question. The long-term dream is simple: more communities, more conversations, more men walking out feeling stronger than when they walked in, and if it changes just one life for the better, it has already done its job. We meet on the first Monday of every month at The Greystones, Sawtry.
MEET TOM
A Man Rebuilt Slowly...
“Men don’t need perfection to heal, we just need honesty, connection, and the courage to show up as we are”
I live by integrity, so I’m not going to lead a group under the pretence that I’ve “got my shit together”. I’m not here to pretend I’ve lived a perfect life, or to stand on any pedestal as a do-gooder. This is my story, raw, imperfect, and still being written, with many blank pages left to fill. I share it because I believe men deserve spaces where truth is allowed to breathe, and vulnerability isn’t treated as weakness.
Trigger Warning: This story contains references to suicidal thoughts, addiction, and drug use. Please do not read on if these themes may trigger you.
The alarm used to go off and I’d hit snooze, not because I was tired but because I couldn’t face being alive. I’d lie there with a pounding head, a hollow chest, and a genuine wish that I hadn’t woken up at all. That emptiness, that ache for the world to stop, was the first thing I felt every morning. Another day… another drink… another reason to hide from myself. My life had shrunk into survival mode, a cycle of depression, anxiety, alcohol, and fear, and I didn’t know who I was anymore, only that I didn’t want to be him.
I’d been battling suicidal thoughts since childhood, living with emotions that were too big for a kid and too heavy for a teenager. I chased highs, alcohol, weed, cocaine, believing they’d fill the void, but every high delivered an even deeper low. My friends grew up, moved forward, settled, steadied… but I stayed stuck. Surrounded by people, yet painfully alone. Eventually the drinking took over, not for fun, but to exist. My physical and mental health collapsed until I had two choices: get help, or lose everything.
I chose help.
The Gainsborough Foundation took me in and began a home detox that wiped ten days from my memory but saved the rest of my life. When it ended, I emerged sober but mentally broken, an immature mind in an adult body, suddenly exposed to the world without the mask I’d hidden behind for years. Sobriety wasn’t peace; it was confusion, grief, fear, a complete loss of identity. I wasn’t living, I was just here.
Then lockdown arrived, stripping away distractions and forcing me to confront myself. One day I walked out the door just to escape my own head, and that small walk became a lifeline. I found the churchyard, beautiful but forgotten, overgrown and unloved. Something in me felt pulled to it. I reached out to help, and for the first time in a long time, Reverend said “Yes, welcomed me with open arms.”
That decision changed me.
Working alongside strangers, different ages, backgrounds, stories, broke every barrier I had ever built. Nobody cared who I had been. Nobody judged. We laughed, shared, worked, and unknowingly became each other’s support network. The churchyard transformed… and so did I. I felt purpose again. Worth. Acceptance. Community. The simple act of doing something with people gave me strength I didn’t know I had left.
Litter picking followed, something rooted in my childhood, something pure, something good. What started as a small activity became two village-wide groups with hundreds involved. People thanked me, encouraged me, stood beside me. That feeling, contributing to something bigger, rebuilt my self-esteem piece by piece. Sobriety didn’t seem like punishment anymore. It felt like clarity.
Whilst working within the community, doors open. I met a man from the local ‘Man Cave’ group, Pete Holland. Older than me, different generation, different background, yet one of the best friends I’ve ever had. He taught me that age means nothing when the connection is real. He shared my pain, understood my alcoholism, held space for my emotions, and showed me what healthy male friendship could look like. He broke down the belief that men should keep quiet, keep strong, keep masks on. He taught me that opening up isn’t weakness, it’s survival.
But life isn’t done testing you when you get back on your feet.
For the past eighteen months, I’ve battled Functional Neurological Disorder, seizures, tremors, blackouts. Some days I can’t trust my own body. I felt stripped of masculinity, strength, and independence. And just as I was trying to cope with that, I lost my brother, 33 years old, a grief so alien and violent it knocked the air out of my lungs. The seizures worsened, the tremors intensified, the depression crept back once more. I didn’t want to burden my family or friends. And the friend I needed more than ever, my old mate Pete, just to tell endearingly "who needs enemies when I have mates like you", but he had also passed away. I felt broken. But then I remembered the churchyard, the litter picking, the conversations, the community and the men who unknowingly supported me just by showing up.
I realised something important:
Sometimes you don’t need therapy, you just need people.
Not to fix you.
Not to judge you.
Just to sit beside you so you’re not alone.
So, with shaking hands, I opened Facebook, clicked onto the Sawtry Scene, and wrote seven simple words:
“Who wants a pint in Sawtry tonight?”
I expected a couple men.
Over 20 turned up.
Not for counselling.
Not for a meeting.
Not for a structured plan.
But for human connection, blokes together, chatting rubbish, opening up when they wanted to, and leaving lighter than they arrived.
Who Wants A Pint wasn’t meant to be big.
It wasn’t meant to be a movement.
It was one man asking a question because he didn’t want to feel alone.
But it turns out…
none of us want to feel alone.
And that’s the real story...
YOUR STORY
Your story matters...
"Every man has a story. When you speak yours, you give others permission to rise” Writing my own journey down gave me something I didn’t expect, pride. Real, honest pride. Seeing my words on a page showed me how far I’ve crawled, climbed, and fought back. It reminded me that even on the darkest days, progress was happening quietly behind the scenes. I hope reading my story encourages you to look at your own.
If you feel ready to put your journey into words, whether it’s one paragraph or ten pages, reach out. We’ll share it here, proudly. This is your group, your voice, your space to inspire others.
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