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Authors: Brian O'Connell
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turning up at a media launch the worse for wear. And now I’m
supposed to keep schtum because I don’t do any of that any more. Because now I don’t fit the stereotype, and perhaps that makes people uncomfortable.
It’s been five years since I spat out the hooch and turned my back on the world of libation. Five years, and not so much as a Bailey’s cheesecake has passed my lips. While the first
few months were undoubtedly tough going, now I don’t have time to think about going out and getting hammered. I have seen and witnessed a different Ireland. It takes a bit of getting used to,
and some situations I’ll never be wholly comfortable with.
What I’ve found is that late-night socialising in Ireland is not exactly a spectator sport. When I do go out, it gets to a point, usually after 11 p.m. and before 12 p.m., when I make my
excuses and leave. I don’t like the smell of bars at closing time. I don’t like spilled beer or soggy beer mats. I don’t like elbows and staggering, pub talk and cover bands. All
the things I would have loved about bars—the escapism, the camaraderie and the craic—I can’t quite relate to anymore. If anything it’s a little self-isolating. And I am
first to admit, especially for the first year of my sobriety, I sometimes tended to shut myself off from the world. It’s a hell of a lot easier than remaining socially active. Part of that is
because I feel comfortable in my own skin now and enjoy the more mundane aspects of life.
But self-isolation is a danger, particularly in Ireland, where the pub, or more specifically alcohol, still plays such a central role. It’s one of the reasons why AA meetings often become such a huge social outlet for some people in recovery. In many ways, they’re recreating the best aspects of the pub in a dry setting. Compulsive
12-steppers or ex-addicts addicted to recovery, they exist, sure. When I rang Tabor Lodge and told them of my decision not to continue with weekly counselling and AA meetings, I remember them telling me it was the first step on the road to relapsing. They have to say that—it’s a blanket approach. I get it. But deep down I think I knew that this was
one I needed to work through on my own.
Sometimes, when I am out, I’m met with curiosity—the journalist who doesn’t drink. Other times people feel self-conscious around me, and feel like I’m judging them purely
by virtue of my sobriety. Maybe I am. And maybe it’s hard not to. I find weddings hardest and least fun of all. There’s a hedonistic attitude at weddings in Ireland. I’ve lost
count of the number of times I’ve been at a wedding where people at the table will tell each other how drunk they’re going to get. There’s the church, the meal, a few speeches and
then anything goes and conversation slips out the side door unnoticed. Perhaps it’s because weddings are in a way a display of deep affection or romantic emotion and as a nation we need to
get inebriated in order to be comfortable around those types of feelings, expressions and emotions.
Visiting relations in Galway recently, we went looking for a local bar to watch a soccer match. Entering the bar, early on a Sunday, one of the locals was fairly well on, wearing a knitted Aran
hat and conducting several conversations at once. He’d clearly had a late one the night before and had an early start that morning to help recuperate. It turns out he was, until recently, the
local bachelor in the village, who held up the bar most nights. He had his own seat at the bar, one of those kings-of-the-counter types. One night a lady sat on his seat while he was in the toilet.
‘That’s my seat,’ he said on his return, and they hit it off. (Try turning that into an opera.) Anyway, they got married, and one of the conditions of the marriage was that he
kept a handle on the drinking. The day we met him was the day after his wedding. It was 12.30 p.m. on a Sunday and he was completely inebriated.
supposed to keep schtum because I don’t do any of that any more. Because now I don’t fit the stereotype, and perhaps that makes people uncomfortable.
It’s been five years since I spat out the hooch and turned my back on the world of libation. Five years, and not so much as a Bailey’s cheesecake has passed my lips. While the first
few months were undoubtedly tough going, now I don’t have time to think about going out and getting hammered. I have seen and witnessed a different Ireland. It takes a bit of getting used to,
and some situations I’ll never be wholly comfortable with.
What I’ve found is that late-night socialising in Ireland is not exactly a spectator sport. When I do go out, it gets to a point, usually after 11 p.m. and before 12 p.m., when I make my
excuses and leave. I don’t like the smell of bars at closing time. I don’t like spilled beer or soggy beer mats. I don’t like elbows and staggering, pub talk and cover bands. All
the things I would have loved about bars—the escapism, the camaraderie and the craic—I can’t quite relate to anymore. If anything it’s a little self-isolating. And I am
first to admit, especially for the first year of my sobriety, I sometimes tended to shut myself off from the world. It’s a hell of a lot easier than remaining socially active. Part of that is
because I feel comfortable in my own skin now and enjoy the more mundane aspects of life.
But self-isolation is a danger, particularly in Ireland, where the pub, or more specifically alcohol, still plays such a central role. It’s one of the reasons why AA meetings often become such a huge social outlet for some people in recovery. In many ways, they’re recreating the best aspects of the pub in a dry setting. Compulsive
12-steppers or ex-addicts addicted to recovery, they exist, sure. When I rang Tabor Lodge and told them of my decision not to continue with weekly counselling and AA meetings, I remember them telling me it was the first step on the road to relapsing. They have to say that—it’s a blanket approach. I get it. But deep down I think I knew that this was
one I needed to work through on my own.
Sometimes, when I am out, I’m met with curiosity—the journalist who doesn’t drink. Other times people feel self-conscious around me, and feel like I’m judging them purely
by virtue of my sobriety. Maybe I am. And maybe it’s hard not to. I find weddings hardest and least fun of all. There’s a hedonistic attitude at weddings in Ireland. I’ve lost
count of the number of times I’ve been at a wedding where people at the table will tell each other how drunk they’re going to get. There’s the church, the meal, a few speeches and
then anything goes and conversation slips out the side door unnoticed. Perhaps it’s because weddings are in a way a display of deep affection or romantic emotion and as a nation we need to
get inebriated in order to be comfortable around those types of feelings, expressions and emotions.
Visiting relations in Galway recently, we went looking for a local bar to watch a soccer match. Entering the bar, early on a Sunday, one of the locals was fairly well on, wearing a knitted Aran
hat and conducting several conversations at once. He’d clearly had a late one the night before and had an early start that morning to help recuperate. It turns out he was, until recently, the
local bachelor in the village, who held up the bar most nights. He had his own seat at the bar, one of those kings-of-the-counter types. One night a lady sat on his seat while he was in the toilet.
‘That’s my seat,’ he said on his return, and they hit it off. (Try turning that into an opera.) Anyway, they got married, and one of the conditions of the marriage was that he
kept a handle on the drinking. The day we met him was the day after his wedding. It was 12.30 p.m. on a Sunday and he was completely inebriated.
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