Sober truths: the gift of giving up booze

Friday night, a bar in Soho: it’s several hours into a friend’s birthday party and we’re at the giggly, slightly silly stage of the night, spilling out over the area we’ve reserved and sneaking out for cigarettes. Soon, we’ll move on to a club and start dancing. It’s a party like any other. Except for one thing. Where usually I’d be three (or four or five) drinks in by now, tonight I haven’t touched a drop.

My name’s Alice and for the past six months I’ve been perpetually sober. While I maintain that I’m not teetotal (I like to keep my options open), the record suggests otherwise. The last time I drank was at a dinner party in May. We had Prosecco, ate roast chicken — and, well, that was that.

This all happened by accident. There was no epiphany. No moment at which I decided to ‘give up’. The truth is, I’ve never been very good at it. I can hold my alcohol, but what gets me are the mornings after — horrible, nauseating, sleep-deprived, shivering and, most of all, anxiety-inducing. As the years passed, these effects seemed to come on more and more easily: after two glasses of wine and then after just one. So I cut out alcohol when I didn’t want, or couldn’t afford, to lose the entire next day. Which became increasingly often — and then almost always.

All of which should make the prospect of the party season a daunting one. Christmas and booze go together like mistletoe and wine. Certainly, if you’d suggested the idea of a festive season without alcohol five years ago, I would have laughed you out of the room. Back then, I was a gossip columnist; champagne and canapés provided my five-a-day. But here’s the thing: ever since embarking on my accidental sober stint, I’ve noticed something strange. The real revelation is that going sober at a party — whisper it — is quite fun.

For all the hand-wringing over Booze Britain — never more enthusiastic than at this time of year — something appears to be shifting in the nation’s drinking habits. According to the Office for National Statistics, the percentage of people drinking regularly is falling. In 2005, 72 per cent of men and 57 per cent of women had drunk alcohol in the previous week. By 2012, that was 64 per cent and 52 per cent. While, in 1998, ten per cent of people said they didn’t drink at all, that figure had risen to 15 per cent by 2009 (the last year for which figures are available).

Since going sober I’ve discovered at least two friends who, hitherto unbeknown to me, share my tendency to be not-quite-teetotal-but-almost. Now, when we’re out together, there’s comfort — a thrill, even — in sneaking to the bar for an illicit Diet Coke. As fashion lecturer and stylist Johanna Payton, author of the Mocktail Hour blog, puts it: ‘Not drinking is like a secret club. When you tell people you’ve stopped, you suddenly find out there are other people in your circle of friends who don’t drink.’

Last year even saw the launch of London’s first alcohol-free cocktail bar, Redemption. It began as a residency at Netil House, a members’ club and workspace in London Fields, last summer, before moving to Ladbroke Grove for nine months. There are plans for a permanent venue in Hackney in 2015. In Sweden earlier this year, 900 people turned out for the first booze-free club night, Sober, at Stockholm’s Södra Theatre.

This isn’t as unlikely as it sounds. I’d always assumed that, without booze to lubricate the situation, going out would be a chore. In fact, over the past six months, I’ve become increasingly convinced that the opposite is true. Where, several whiskies in, I might find myself lingering at a party I didn’t really want to be at, and then regretting it the next day, now those nights are reserved for occasions that are genuinely enjoyable. Without the soporific effect of booze, it’s amazing how much easier it is to get out of those trapped-in-the-corner conversations that go on for hours. Sober, you talk to people you want to, about things you’re actually interested in — and, by extension, have more fun. Cutting out drinking acts as a social edit, the upshot being that you only go to those events you really want to — and only see the people you really like. You also leave earlier, which is no bad thing. I’ve long maintained that parties are at their best before 1am when everyone reaches the slurry and sleepy stage of drunk or the drugs come out (although, speaking of drugs, I know one non-drinker who never touches a drop, but isn’t averse to a bit of Class B chemical stimulation; as she points out: ‘When you compare the health risks, there really isn’t much in it, but alcohol makes me feel worse the next day’).

And then, of course, there’s the joy that accompanies not being hungover. It’s amazing what you can pack into a weekend when you’re not prostrate on the sofa with a packet of Doritos and an Orange is the New Black binge. You can get up early, go to a yoga class, followed by a trip to a market, in the time you would normally have spent recovering, and the day hasn’t even got going. Since stopping drinking, I’ve seen more films, met more friends for brunch and visited more exhibitions than I managed in my entire time in London previously. I’ve become less flaky, more punctual, and am generally in a better mood. It’s not just the days that benefit — the next night does, too. Gone are the evenings lost to sleeping off the booze, making the consecutive nights spent socialising that the party season demands easier.

Which is not to say it’s without its challenges. Tell people you’re not drinking and you’re often met with the assumption that you are uptight, dull, not game for a laugh. Hosts get narked that you’re not making an effort; fellow guests wonder if you’re judging them for the drinks they’ve consumed. I’ve been asked if I’m pregnant or ill — which, I suppose, is marginally preferable to the suspicion that I’m recovering from a raging alcohol problem.