I was speaking to friends recently about Dry January. One said that he used to do it annually but the appeal steadily waned. Maybe starting two successive years under pandemic restrictions was hard enough without further, self-imposed, denial. This piece isn’t about judgement.
Going the whole of January without a drink has never been a conscious goal of mine, but then my alcohol intake is miniscule anyway. It’s often a surprise to people when I tell them this – a whiskymaker who barely drinks.
Much as my parents more-or-less successfully taught me that booze is to be enjoyed but respected, the main cause of my current temperance is a mild form of PTSD carried over from two years as a brand ambassador for Chivas Regal in Dubai, and the toll three hangovers a week took on my health.
For a desert state, the UAE is one of the wettest places I’ve known. If you’re a European who has spent any time in Dubai or Abu Dhabi, ‘Brunch’ will trigger very particular, albeit hazy, memories. With so many events between Sunday and Thursday evening for my job, I tried to foreswear Brunch and keep my weekends clear of booze. But many of my friends didn’t drink for a living, so hanging out with them on Fridays and Saturdays often involved a glass or two of something.
I was never one of those remarkable specimens who can wake up hangover-free after a skinful, and my body increasingly struggled with the toxins I was asking it to process. When the end of my two-year stint approached, I made it clear to my employers that a role doing something in a sample room 9-to-5 (it was actually more like 7-to-4) would suit my interests much better than another 12 months as a tanned cadaver.
Once back in the UK, I revelled in what I had only been able to briefly experience during the UAE summers, when religious holidays made the bar scene way more low-key: with no alcohol entering my system for days at a time, I felt fantastic.
While Sinatra’s famous quote about pitying teetotallers is hilarious, I can definitely attest that the 5pm relief at finally being able to stomach solid food is a hollow win.
Without meaning to, I’ve gone a month without a drink. In a challenging first two months to 2022, stringing many alcohol-free days together has had cumulative benefits for me. Sleep is better and with improved rest comes the option to do more during the day. I’m running regularly again and feeling fit and strong all the time is – sorry to say – preferable to the merry benevolence that comes halfway down your second pint.
The single biggest benefit, though, is cognitive. After ten days without alcohol, I find that my mind can process things more effectively. I cover mental ground more rapidly and self-critical thoughts can be managed more easily. It’s like sweeping all the background programmes from your desktop while also muting unhelpful notifications.
From a purely rational perspective, then, drinking looks a lot like the voluntary impairment of my own faculties. Hemingway is a strange and fascinating creature. But I am also battling a productivity imperative, one in which the demon on my shoulder has disguised itself as an angel of industriousness. Teetotalism feels a tad fundamentalist, throwing out the socially-rich and flavoursome baby with the alcoholic bathwater.
Flavours behave differently in the glass compared to the mind. Sipping a dram reveals further facets over tasting alone. As much as Liquid Texts deals with the imagination, it will only succeed in my eyes if it allows me to engage – in deep ways – with the world of people, atoms and physical processes.
This phase of giving up will end and once again I’ll be experimenting with how much alcohol and how often. My month off has reminded me of hedonic moments tea cannot get anywhere near: takeaway pizza from a proper pizzeria with a glass of chilled red wine; cask strength whiskies with good friends; Champagne from Ulysse Collin (a sadly infrequent occurrence); a perfectly made Negroni in a swish bar. These are moderate delights that warrant feeling a bit below par for a day or two.
I have experienced the kind of clarity that comes with tea’s alpha waves and running’s endorphins, as well as the particular insight alcohol can occasionally bestow. While I do benefit from time spent in both worlds, I will always favour the writer over the imbiber.