Iâd tell people, âIâm an alcoholic,â and theyâd say, âOh, sorry,â and back away.â
I like Nickâs style. Iâve already been asked at least a dozen times why Iâm not drinking. I can usually tell by the delivery where those who ask place on a scale that ranges from genuinely interested to obnoxious wanker, and I tailor my response accordingly. With that scale in mind, I formulate my own top-ten excuses for sobriety.
1. I just want to prove that I can do it.
2. My friends bet me I wouldnât last a month.
3. Itâs for charity.
4. Iâm trying to lose weight.
5. Iâm training for a marathon.
6. Iâve just come out of rehab.
7. NASA doesnât let its astronauts drink before shuttle launches.
8. My psychiatrist says I shouldnât drink on these pills.
9. Drinking makes the baby Jesus cry.
10. Itâs one of my parole conditions.
But I suspect that none of these justifications will suffice. It seems the only excuse you can proffer for not drinking that passes the âyou can have just oneâ test, other than Nickâs âIâm an alcoholicâ line, is to say that youâre pregnant. Anything short of being up the duff is open to negotiation. I start to envy pregnant women, who can happily turn down a drink without feeling as though theyâre altering the group dynamic or breaking a social contract. Theirs is seen as a decision of necessity, not choice, and therefore theyâre off the hook.
When I decided to stop drinking, I knew it would be tough, but I thought it would be a simple proposition of abstaining from the act of consuming alcohol. I wasnât prepared for the complex moral maze Iâd have to navigate along the way.
A DECADE HAS passed since I came to Australia for what was meant to be a year-long working holiday, and turned into a life I never got round to leaving. Much has changed since then. My relationship ended, I got my dream job, and I bought an apartment, anchoring myself to a city Iâd once known only through the slice of vanilla suburbia portrayed in Neighbours . Iâve seen friends and jobs come and go, and my clothes and hairstyle have changed, yet the one constant â other than taxes, the love of my family, and the rising and setting of the sun â has been alcohol. Wherever Iâve been and whoever Iâve been with, I have enjoyed getting drunk, regularly and unquestioningly. Drinking is the international language of social cohesion. When I was backpacking around Australia and New Zealand, it was drinking games that broke the ice with fellow travellers. In almost every job Iâve had, work friendships have been sealed in the pub. Getting pissed is how we bond with friends old and new, not just on the night itself but also the morning after.
On the tram one morning, I overhear a couple of guys in their early twenties talking about the previous nightâs adventures.
âI was wasted, man. I canât even remember getting home,â says one, whoâs wearing a cap low over a pair of mirrored sunglasses.
âHow the fuck did I end up on top of that car?â the other asks.
Giggling, they try to retrace their evening, fitting their patchy memories together like a jigsaw puzzle.
Itâs a conversation Iâve had with many mates over many years. Big nights out are something we revel in, comparing the sizes of our hangovers and the fogginess of our memories over laughs and cups of tea in the staff kitchen come Monday morning. When you get drunk with friends, itâs like taking a road trip together, destination unknown. You only need to look at the success of the Hangover movie franchise to see that thereâs a universal narrative about the unpredictable adventures that can arise through the common bond forged by drinking. We might not all have woken up to find Mike Tysonâs tiger in our hotel bathroom, or pulled our own tooth out after
I like Nickâs style. Iâve already been asked at least a dozen times why Iâm not drinking. I can usually tell by the delivery where those who ask place on a scale that ranges from genuinely interested to obnoxious wanker, and I tailor my response accordingly. With that scale in mind, I formulate my own top-ten excuses for sobriety.
1. I just want to prove that I can do it.
2. My friends bet me I wouldnât last a month.
3. Itâs for charity.
4. Iâm trying to lose weight.
5. Iâm training for a marathon.
6. Iâve just come out of rehab.
7. NASA doesnât let its astronauts drink before shuttle launches.
8. My psychiatrist says I shouldnât drink on these pills.
9. Drinking makes the baby Jesus cry.
10. Itâs one of my parole conditions.
But I suspect that none of these justifications will suffice. It seems the only excuse you can proffer for not drinking that passes the âyou can have just oneâ test, other than Nickâs âIâm an alcoholicâ line, is to say that youâre pregnant. Anything short of being up the duff is open to negotiation. I start to envy pregnant women, who can happily turn down a drink without feeling as though theyâre altering the group dynamic or breaking a social contract. Theirs is seen as a decision of necessity, not choice, and therefore theyâre off the hook.
When I decided to stop drinking, I knew it would be tough, but I thought it would be a simple proposition of abstaining from the act of consuming alcohol. I wasnât prepared for the complex moral maze Iâd have to navigate along the way.
A DECADE HAS passed since I came to Australia for what was meant to be a year-long working holiday, and turned into a life I never got round to leaving. Much has changed since then. My relationship ended, I got my dream job, and I bought an apartment, anchoring myself to a city Iâd once known only through the slice of vanilla suburbia portrayed in Neighbours . Iâve seen friends and jobs come and go, and my clothes and hairstyle have changed, yet the one constant â other than taxes, the love of my family, and the rising and setting of the sun â has been alcohol. Wherever Iâve been and whoever Iâve been with, I have enjoyed getting drunk, regularly and unquestioningly. Drinking is the international language of social cohesion. When I was backpacking around Australia and New Zealand, it was drinking games that broke the ice with fellow travellers. In almost every job Iâve had, work friendships have been sealed in the pub. Getting pissed is how we bond with friends old and new, not just on the night itself but also the morning after.
On the tram one morning, I overhear a couple of guys in their early twenties talking about the previous nightâs adventures.
âI was wasted, man. I canât even remember getting home,â says one, whoâs wearing a cap low over a pair of mirrored sunglasses.
âHow the fuck did I end up on top of that car?â the other asks.
Giggling, they try to retrace their evening, fitting their patchy memories together like a jigsaw puzzle.
Itâs a conversation Iâve had with many mates over many years. Big nights out are something we revel in, comparing the sizes of our hangovers and the fogginess of our memories over laughs and cups of tea in the staff kitchen come Monday morning. When you get drunk with friends, itâs like taking a road trip together, destination unknown. You only need to look at the success of the Hangover movie franchise to see that thereâs a universal narrative about the unpredictable adventures that can arise through the common bond forged by drinking. We might not all have woken up to find Mike Tysonâs tiger in our hotel bathroom, or pulled our own tooth out after
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