John Sutherland: It’s 34 years since I stopped using the stuff
Among my favourite lines of poetry are Christopher Logue’s woeful, “Nevertheless, I shall forget her, and, alas, as if by accident, a day will pass in which I shall not think about her even more.” I go whole months now, without thinking of what was once the most important thing in my life. Forget family, job, liver and lights, bank balance. All that mattered was the elusive “next one”.
The scarlet letter I wear (for “alcoholic”, not the other “A”) is somewhat faded nowadays. It’s getting on for 34 years since I stopped using the stuff that came close to killing me. Without alcohol, life is duller: but it’s longer (forget that corny gag about it only feeling longer). And you can remember more of it.
How useful is AA? It varies from user to user. In my case it served as a kind of A&E. But, having done its cleansing job, I could leave it behind. Many successfully “recovering” choose not to. Good for them.
You never “recover”. I had cancer four years ago and, although “cured”, I shall be, for the rest of my life, defined by the NHS as a person with cancer (it helps with the prescription charges). I shall also be, until the day I die, an alcoholic. In permanent remission on both fronts, I hope.
Only a couple of times over the decades have I relapsed. Once an injudiciously eaten mousse, soused in brandy. The other time a misnamed non-alcoholic mojito. I felt, almost instantly after the first (and only) mouthful, a flush rising through my cheeks and that wonderful, first-drink, euphoria. The feeling you chase thereafter until darkness falls. I can live without it. And, if I want to live, shall have to.
Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett: I no longer drink to get trashed
Booze, drink, grog, plonk, sauce, hooch … whatever you call alcohol (in Wales we say “lysh”) there’s no denying that many of us love it. The fact that a photograph of new year mayhem in Manchester – at its centre, reclining on the tarmac, a demi-nude, white belly flopping out as his mannered hand reaches for a bottle of lager – was compared to a Renaissance masterpiece is testament to that. As is the fact that, at the weekend, most UK high streets resemble modern recreations of William Hogarth’s Gin Lane, except with more tit and leg on show.
I’m no different. I’ve never been a snifter kind of girl. If I have one glass I might as well have the lot, especially if it involves white wine (a ridiculous thing to get lashed on, and yet for some reason I persist).
If this sounds worrying, rest assured that I’m not a daily drinker. Whenever someone says that they’re “having a night off” I feel a vague sense of alarm. My night on is usually so excessive that it puts me off boozing the rest of the time. It’s similar to the way my mother gave up smoking: 10 fags and three cans of special brew would guarantee she felt so rough that she didn’t smoke again for a while. Not that I’m saying an all-out binge is better than the “little and often” method. Whichever camp we’re in, neither is ideal.
I will engage in brief periods of abstinence, usually when I want to lose a quick half stone; nothing works better. But I usually fall off the wagon again pretty soon afterwards. That first taste of chilled sauv blanc after a period of restriction is a thing of beauty.
I no longer drink to get trashed, as I did as a student, and I always keep my wits about me, so I don’t see the harm in having the odd heavy session. But these days, I know my limits.
Remona Aly: Watching drinkers get sloshed is amusing
Life as a teetotaller has been a liquid odyssey that has flung me far from the puritanical glass of orange juice, and opened up a daring world of Shloer and myriad pretentiously named mocktails.
My family has enjoyed its own version of a halal knees-up. We’ve often had our house red or white grape juice to accompany lamb or chicken for dinner. This Christmas just gone, we went all-out on elderflower fizz, £5 a pop. It was good stuff and I couldn’t get enough of it. I felt what it must be to feel hungover the next day. If I lived up north, I’d love to go down the Halal Inn in Oldham – the UK’s first alcohol free pub –a thoroughly British-Muslim concept.
On several occasions, people have been stunned, even mortified, upon hearing I’ve never touched a drop. “What, not even once?” they ask. However, I cannot say, hand on heart, that my life has been entirely alcohol-free. I’ve accidentally munched on the odd champagne truffle and doused my pancakes with bourbon sauce in a cafe once. An honest mistake. Sometimes I wish I made more of them.
A highlight or nadir that combined my faith with a bit of the ol’ bottle, came during one of the most sacred months for Muslims: Ramadan. A friend bought an enormous cake to add to the iftar feast. Once sunset kicked in, seven hungry Muslims were halfway through devouring it, when I piped up, “Tastes a bit alcoholic doesn’t it?” A Google later and we guiltily lowered our forks.
I’ve never been entirely comfortable around alcohol, but watching drinkers get tipsy or even sloshed is amusing. At house parties, weddings, university balls, I’ve seen inhibitions set free. Some gush odes and declarations of platonic love. Others become philosophers.
Many drinking friends have told me that I don’t need alcohol to relax and have a good time, saying – fondly, I hope – that I act drunk at times. It seems that an overt manifestation of happiness mirrors a state of intoxication. Yet these same friends have showed tremendous consideration, ensuring I’m not left out with gestures such as concocting alcohol-free mulled wine for me.
So alcohol – whether through abstention, being surrounded by it, or by accidental intake – has played some part in my life. I’ve never really wanted to drink it though, and according to friends it’s probably safer for everyone that I never try.
Julie Bindel: I love booze, and the world is a brighter place for me under its influence
Everyone knows that excess booze is bad for you. But how much is too much? If, like me, you find that one martini is never enough, and cheese is not worth eating without wine, every day is a step closer to enforced and total abstinence, as moderation is clearly not an option.
Because I am fond of the sauce, I do take proper time off on occasion. Once a year I go without the devil’s brew for 12 weeks, and once, on the cusp of 40, I went a whole year.
Being bored for 12 months or 12 weeks solid is a challenge. The mornings are great, waking up without the slightest hangover or regret, but evenings are less fun, because alcohol adds enjoyment to most events.
When I give up I do it properly. I can be surrounded by bottles and not feel tempted, as I am in a mindset. But there are certain things I choose not to do during my time off. I won’t go to house parties (I don’t like them drunk, let alone sober) or to fine, French restaurants where the wine is as important as the food. It helps to have a date marked in my diary for when I can have my next drink, and a great place in which I can have it.
The way I see it, going without booze for a few weeks at a time means I am likely to be able to carry on drinking for the foreseeable, as it gives my liver a chance to recover. I have tried the moderation caper, and it just does not do it for me. One glass of wine with dinner, and no aperitif or digestif afterwards? What is the point? Whether I am a “problem drinker” or not, the fact is I love booze and its effects, and the world is a brighter place for me under its influence.
Rose George: Red wine throws my mood into a dark pit
I come from the Yorkshire school of detox and dieting: it’s all mostly nonsense. Eat unprocessed food, plenty of vegetables and pulses, drink lots of water, and exercise. So that’s that sorted. But what about alcohol? I’m a typical drinker in that I think I’m not a typical drinker. I think I don’t have a problem. I always lie to the “how many units” question (that I don’t doubt doctors inflate automatically to get a more accurate picture). I never drink alone, and I run several times a week. That’s the good me. But on weekends, in company, I can drink several glasses of wine, two or three days in a row. And because I am 46, I suffer grievously afterwards, losing a whole day of health and productivity. It doesn’t help my running either.
But that’s not why I’ve embarked upon dry January. I’m doing it for the sake of my sanity. Alcohol, particularly red wine, throws my moods into a dark pit the next day, and I can’t afford that any more. I’m perimenopausal, and my failing ovaries and fluctuating oestrogen are lobbing days upon days of depression at me. I finally resorted to taking anti-depressants because the depression was getting frightening, and I don’t think I’m giving sertraline the best chance to work if I’m clouding my mind with bottles of red wine.
Of course I’m also doing it to see if I can, as discipline is something I’m not very disciplined at. I want a less taxed liver and a constitution that doesn’t have to work hard to rid my body of the toxins that alcohol breaks down into. My brain is already having to work hard at staying serene: by giving up alcohol, I’m giving it a head start.
Andy West: I’m teetotal, and people always want to know why
When I was 14, a mate offered me a swig from his cider. Because of the alcoholism in my family, my survival instinct told me to say no for fear that I’d suffer the same fate.
Although I’m still teetotal at 29, drink has the power to wind me up. I’ve felt jealous of alcohol. On a Sunday morning, I’ve thought “What does a hangover have that I don’t?” At social events, I’m constantly asked “But why don’t you?” My behaviour can be said to fall outside the dominant ideology, so it’s considered fine for strangers to ask me this, yet I’d be considered antagonistic if I asked them “How come you drink?”
As I’ve grown up, I’ve seen my friends drinking. They’re happy, healthy people and I’ve learned that not every drinker becomes an addict. I know that if I tried alcohol it probably wouldn’t be the death of me. So does that mean I’m tempted to order a pint?
I don’t believe my life would be bettered by drinking. This is because of the countless friends who drink who say to me “No. The headaches. The cost. The embarrassing regrets. Don’t bother.”
The alcoholism I saw as a kid showed me the derelict regions of the human psyche, and it made me want to be lucid enough so I could see the regions beyond. I want to have friends, not drinking buddies. I want to wake up to the day ahead instead of to the night before. I’ve never seriously doubted being dry. My teetotalism came from my fear of an early grave yet it has taken the shape of something life-affirming.