In the era of sobriety, Sophie Morris is on the wrong side of acceptability - and wonders why a tipple is now such a crime
Image by Kat Green for The i Paper
It’s nothing to be proud of, I’m well aware. I am supposed to feel shame, a deep middle-class, middle-aged mother shame, about my drinking, about allowing even a drop of alcohol to pass my lips when, say, I’m in charge of a child or, perhaps, am commiserating rather than celebrating. Far less admit to enjoying a few cocktails and a bottle of wine “on the reg”.
In terms of white knuckle rides, it has been a helluva lurch from 90s badass ladette drinkers to the Noughties’ “Let mother drink gin” via overwhelming prosecco-related paraphernalia to today’s ubiquitous mantle of abstinence.
How have I held on for the entire ride, only to find myself, today, caught in a moral panic about my most mainstream of hobbies? I’m surrounded by a perfect storm of actual alcoholics who have bravely cut ties with their poison; peri-menopausal women who aren’t drinking because a single glass will drive a sledgehammer through their sleeping (and therefore waking) hours; and younger friends who never really drank but now base an entire identity around their lack of a habit they never had.
At my age, I’m hardly out looking for drinking partners. But it’s nice to share a drink or have a reason to open a bottle. Instead, I often find I am one of very few drinking at a social occasion. If I go out with a group of female friends, I might be the only one. Whereas we all used to be in it together, I now fear ordering third drinks and beyond, as the only embarrassing lush in my group.
Am I destined to be the last drinker standing, waving the flag for boozy frolics and wineoholics all over the country, in years to come? Thankfully, I also spend a lot of time in restaurants, places famous for their problematic relationship with alcohol, where I tend to be the lightweight in attendance.
Don’t think that I take the problem lightly. I can’t even drink that much myself these days, thanks to debilitating migraines and poor sleep. And yet, I labour on. My sober friends, and there are a great number of them, are waiting for me to cross to the other side, because while I am happy to discuss my drinking pains (the searing anxiety, the lost work hours, the parched skin), I want to continue. Why? Because I like it. Maybe I am on the wrong side of history. I am certainly on the wrong side of acceptability.
For the record, my therapist doesn’t think that drinking is my problem. That’s the really terrifying thing, isn’t it? I’ve seen this happen with very many a reformed drinker. Once you give up, all your genuine problems crawl murderously out of the woodwork, like an army of ants to the merest speck of sugar.
Scouring the really deep stuff clean isn’t a job for cowards. A number of them had to take a detour via various illegal substances first. I hear that in the US, where alcohol has a far worse reputation than it does here, the legalisation of cannabis has provided a welcome alternative salve. But switching your dummy for a sucked thumb is no solution.
I was talking this through with a friend who has valiantly given up drinking and vastly improved her quality of life. “There are compelling arguments for the fact that life is so relentless and overwhelming and shit that we all need to self medicate some of the time,” she pointed out. Of course, self-medicating with marathons or meditation should bring about more positive health outcomes than stress drinking every time you glance at mortgage rates.
Another friend, who hasn’t drunk for many months, had a little glass of beer at Easter, just so she didn’t fall into some sort of superstitious vortex of worry that a single drink might doom her for the hereafter.
That’s the problem with an all or nothing approach to, well, anything. It’s why I welcome the fresh focus on no and low alcohol and – despite my reservations – applaud the fact we can all say we’re not drinking on any given night out without the risk of being jeered all the way home again.
My anecdotal observations about sobriety are supported by statistics. One in three pub visits is now alcohol free. British drinkers are older, too, with 59 per cent of those aged between 55 and 74 likely to drink at least once a week, compared to 31 per cent for those ages 16-24. Of the 14 per cent who never drink, 52 per cent say they used to.
Children go on pretending to believe in Father Christmas far past a reasonable age because they don’t want to break the magic. Can’t we just admit we’ve messed up, and got this drinking thing all wrong? Hold our hands up and apologise, Scout’s honour, instead of having to give it back altogether? Because we have got it wrong, most of us, and I include myself in that number. I’ve been getting it wrong since I was a teenager ordering Blue bols and Grasshoppers and Bailey’s. But I order chic bitter red drinks now instead, they’re Italian and widely accepted, and daydream about iced conical glasses filled with a clear spirit – see, so grown up!
Is there any evidence, anywhere, that says most of us can’t have a little or a big drink now and then and who cares if we spill a secret we shouldn’t have or laugh too loudly and embarrass the kids? Is drinking doomed to prohibition, like smoking under Sunak?
We’ve seen how well that worked for the US, which quickly took up arms to defend its speakeasies in the 20s. Banning booze fuelled organised crime, just as criminalising ecstasy gave Manchester its Gunchester era – and Americans are now so uptight about the subject you can hear the corks popping out of arseholes every time you “make it a double” over there.
I think the line I tread – hopefully without stumbling off it too often – is that as a regular fallible human being, I am not in control of my relationship with alcohol, but nor am I in control of a great many things. Should I be? As regular fallible human beings, are we ever really, truly in control of our relationships with the things we love, be they whisky or Fortnite or giant bags of Tyrrells or shopping or sugar or starving or bingeing? This isn’t because we are weak, but because the forces of the outside world are too strong. We must seek comfort, somewhere and somehow. The challenge is working out how not to misuse or abuse our solace.
A few weeks ago, I had the perfect encounter with a cool amber glass of alcohol. It was early afternoon on a Sunday and after a long and windy walk we passed our favourite seafront pub and bundled indoors to escape the spray. That half-pint on a blustery day was a good way to enjoy a drink. It is possible, I hope. I am so proud of all my sober friends, I just can’t quite make peace with the idea that a sober future is the only future, for all of us.
Not convinced? If you’re one of the growing number worried your job might be taken over by AI, there’s a booming British industry over which no computer will ever run roughshod – English wine, which is forecast to grow from 2,500 employees to 30,000 by 2040. See you in the queue.