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As far as sadistic ideas dreamt up by mortal enemies of fun go, Dry January is pretty much the reigning champion. The phenomenon, which has struck fear into the heart of every functioning alcoholic (‘journalist’) since its inception, seems only to be gaining momentum this year, with scores of celebrities—people who should know better—abstaining booze in the first four weeks of what could have been a perfectly good month, and tweeting about it under the uninspiring hashtags #dryjan and #noexcuses. Some have even gone so far as to publicly recommend recipes for mocktails and share brand names of the most supposedly palatable alcohol-free beers, things that a person would have been cut down in the street for when I was growing up in Newcastle (aka The Good Old Days). Nowadays, social media is awash with self-congratulatory references to these products, as if they were actual clever inventions rather than what we know them to be in reality: merriment genocide.
I’M CONVINCED ONE OF THE REASONS PEOPLE BEGIN WITH DRY JANUARY IS BECAUSE THEY WAKE UP ON NEW YEARS’ DAY WITH A SPLITTING MIGRAINE, A PAUNCH AND A VAGUE SENSE OF HAVING SPENT LOADS OF MONEY ON HAVING A SHIT TIME. NEW YEARS’ EVE IS THE WORST NIGHT OUT OF THE YEAR
I’m convinced that one of the reasons people begin with Dry January is because they wake up on New Years’ Day with a splitting migraine, a paunch and a vague sense of having spent loads of money on having a shit time. But the real reason this happens is because New Years’ Eve is the worst night out of the year. It’s overhyped; even the most backwater, urine-soaked local pub sells tickets for £50 or more; and the pressure to get off with someone at midnight inevitably leads to tears on the street corner at 12.15am while you recant to a bored stranger the reason why your Tinder date dumped you. With this in mind, it’s perfectly understandable why you might wake up and decide that the half bottle of vodka and the tray of Jaegerbombs were to blame, and that your life will be magically improved if you step away from them for four weeks while simultaneously taking up kale and kickboxing. But heed my warning before you throw it all away: the alcohol isn’t the problem here. New Years’ Eve is the problem. In fact, scratch that. You are the problem.
Now, I’m the first to admit that not many people are going to hire me as a motivational speaker with that sort of attitude, but the truth is that this mindset is surprisingly liberating. Alcohol, after all, is (probably) not the reason your life didn’t turn out the way you always imagined it would be, back when you had hopes and dreams. That is due to a combination of your personality defects, a smattering of bad luck, a couple of wrong choices and the mother who never praised you enough as a child but somehow always had time for your older sister. Can you fix this all in January, or even in 2015? Can you hell. The wheels of your destiny were set in motion long ago, and now all you can do is sit back and watch that slightly disappointing fate unfold. You can do that with an ice cold beer in your hand, in front of an open fire on a sofa in the nearest pub, or you can do it with a carrot and spinach smoothie on top of a balancing ball in a gym full of people much better looking than you.
If you’re ready to turn your back on the only substance that makes people in your dating league look vaguely attractive, then go ahead.
This is the real choice left in your life. Which option will you take? If you’re ready to turn your back on the only substance that makes people in your dating league look vaguely attractive, then go ahead. But be prepared to look at yourself in the mirror on the 31st of January, mere weeks away, and question whether you like what you see. ‘Who is this smug, self-satisfied Instagrammer of soda and lime concoctions?’ I hear you cry. ‘Where is the endearingly ridiculous person who would only get out of bed at 4pm on a Sunday, and that’s only because the Domino’s delivery man was standing at the door with an extra large four cheese pizza and judgment in his eyes? Who are these Lycra-clad, dog-walking, bright-eyed people I now encounter at 8am on weekends while I jog across Hampstead Heath, healthy, sober, well-adjusted, conscientious, and utterly alone? Are these—could they be—my peers?’
Having ventured into Dry January and found its barren wasteland sorely lacking, the revelation that you are now a holier-than-thou arsehole with a personal trainer and a penchant for ‘gentle strolls’ may come as a shock. Lucky for you, however, all is not lost. Jesus taught us that life after (personality) death is accessible through the medium of red wine. And isn’t that what Christmas was all about, anyway?
Here’s to February.
