Thanks to a combination of night-time curfews, social-distancing rules, pubs closing, restaurants failing, the ‘rule of six’ and compulsory mask-wearing, that basic and necessary human need for people to meet for a drink has never been so difficult. Now, with the government’s new three-tier Covid strategy in place, anyone at any moment could find their local pub shut, their parties cancelled, and all forms of indoor mixing prohibited. Millions in the UK are already living under these restrictions. It’s a fair bet that millions more will soon join them. And if the government gives in to demands for a ‘circuit breaker’ — a short-term lockdown — it would in effect totally suspend social drinking as we know it.
In the wake of these restrictions, a disgruntled friend of mine spoke for many when he said to me: ‘What the hell are we supposed to do, drink on our own?’
‘Yes! You should try it,’ I said.
When I told him that I’d discovered during the first lockdown back in March that solitary drinking, contrary to popular thinking, is one of life’s great pleasures, he looked concerned and said: ‘Are you OK? Want to talk about anything?’
We solitary drinkers — we prefer to be called solo drinkers — have always been stigmatised. Drinking on your own is seen by the medical profession as a sign of such mental health problems as depression and alcoholism. And the public at large regard solo drinking with suspicion, particularly when it comes to men. It’s what sad, lonely men do. Sad men in smelly rooms. Sad sloshed men watching porn and drinking cheap wine. Sad lonely depressed men sending tweets they will regret in the morning. Sad men who weep themselves to sleep.
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