As Sober October comes to an end and we turn our attention to two months of forced festivities, it might be time to ask ourselves if these month-long periods of sobriety actually do anything. In short, I’ve found the answer is that they do. This year, I attempted Dry January. Why? For one simple reason: shame. There are few emotions in life more powerful and more potent than shame. And what is a hangover if not chemically-induced shame?
The first time I got really drunk was at a house party. I was 15. My friend and I were new to alcohol and so we thought it clever to buy a litre of Disaronno Originale and eight pints of Kronenbourg. ‘Is that going to be enough?’ I asked. ‘Probably not,’ my friend said, ‘but we can always steal some more at the party.’ It turns out that it was enough. It was more than enough. After finishing our booze and having my first kiss – sloppy and embarrassing – I found myself outside, hunched over a pot plant. This was the first time I experienced heavy drinking. And it was the first time I experienced heavy drink-induced shame.
I remember insisting that the whole party listen to John Denver for two hours. I remember shoving a block of Brie in my mouth
My current motivation for Dry Jan and Sober October comes from New Year’s Eve. I was drunk, obviously. Much of the evening is now a distant, disgraceful blur. I remember standing in a crowd of 8,000 people by Waterloo Station and unable to see a single firework. I remember my friend swallowing a mouthful of sick on the tube. I remember falling through my friend’s Christmas tree in his Canary Wharf flat on the 30th floor of some shiny apartment building where the ground is so far away that it makes the Ubers look like Scalextrics. I remember insisting that the whole party listen to John Denver for two hours. I remember shoving a block of Brie in my mouth. I remember taking a taxi home and staring at the lights of the Blackwall Tunnel as a hangover began to take hold.
Sitting in my bed on New Year’s Day, my girlfriend asleep beside me, I resolved to do what countless others had done before: I decided I needed a month off the drink. The first week was easy. But then the texts started to come in. ‘Fancy a pint, mate?’ ‘Oi, you around for a swifter?’ ‘I’m hearing awful rumours that you’re doing Dry January, Zak. Tell me it isn’t so. Have you become a certified cretin?’
It turns out that Dry January is terrible. That’s the point. A month of abstinence is not meant to be easy, which is why it’s considered a challenge. The founders of Dry January, Alcohol Change UK, make this clear on their website, ‘you’ll have a test at some point, an event or meal out and the trick is, can you turn that drink down?’
Yes, I suppose I can, but it isn’t easy. One of the biggest challenges is pretending to like 0 per cent beer for 31 days. I’ll let you in on a little secret, and paraphrase Orwell while I’m at it: all alcohol-free beers are equal (disgusting), but some are more equal (more disgusting) than others. I won’t name them for legal reasons, but you can guess which brands I’m referring to. One is straight cat piss. The other is for philistines and those on parole. The faux-IPA brands are for your uncle at Christmas because last year he had one too many glasses of sherry. Some are tolerable but only if your eyes are closed and you’re humming ‘Jerusalem’. And then there is Lucky Saint. Lucky Saint – ‘The UK’s #1 Dedicated Alcohol-Free Beer’ – is the crown prince of low alcohol beverages. With each passing day, Lucky Saint commandeers a new tap. I used to like Lucky Saint but then I drank ten pints of the stuff and spent the whole tube ride home clutching my stomach and groaning like John Hurt in Alien.
Another challenge is being sober around drunk people, which is something that teetotallers have to deal with on a regular basis. Sitting in the back of a pub garden as the rain beats down on the parasol and your friend launches into his fifth Borat impersonation of the night is tolerable with the aid of ethanol. It’s toe-curling torture when you’re sober. But this is all part of the process. It also helps you to realise which friends are friends and which friends are glorified drinking buddies.
Sober October and Dry January are growing in popularity. When Dry January first launched in 2013, a measly 4,000 people signed up. In 2024, that number grew to 215,000, and that doesn’t include the thousands of people who did it in secret.
These challenges are lessons in moderation. The internet will talk about the health benefits of temporary abstinence: better sleep, improved focus, clearer skin, an absence of post-drinking diarrhoea. That’s great, but it doesn’t concern me. I’m interested in how Sober October and Dry January can improve the way I drink. I’ve found I like to prove to myself that life without alcohol is just about manageable (although there’s an idea that only those with a problem are the one’s who need to go cold turkey). That said, drink is an integral part of Britain’s culture. A pint is a staple of the British diet, and I wouldn’t have it any other way, no matter what Keir Starmer wants. But I have to admit that a stint of sobriety invites reflection on the concept of self-control. So, begrudgingly, I’ll concede that a grim October and an even grimmer January is probably for the best. But I won’t be quitting for good. I love a drink – and the drink will always love me.
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