Colm O'Regan: I had a go at Dry January - my first step was to cut out the cans

Comedian and Irish Examiner columnist Colm O'Regan pictured in Cork. Picture: Denis Minihane.

We made it to February. January seemed so long, it almost feels like we are already halfway through 2024, so I think it’s appropriate to sit back and take stock.

First things first, it is not spring. At some point in the birth of the Irish nation as we assembled the essentials of a working country, undoubtedly mistakes were made.

There was Archbishop McQuaid’s constitution, the ripping up of the railways — and more saliently, silently hiving all the railway land off to someone’s brother-in-law — and the sewing into the primary school syllabus the notion that spring begins in February. 

It’s as if there was lobbying from the makers of nature boards who needed to up their sales after the Christmas rush. So we were all scrabbling for snowdrops in the frozen soil.

But still, February or to give it its proper title, Feberry, does mean something. For the first time in a while, for me, it means a sense of achievement.

This was the first time I had a go at Dry January. But it wasn’t Dry January completely. I made that clear from the start in the terms of reference myself and myself came up with. 

But I struggled to name what I was doing. ‘Drier January’ is OK but when spoken, sounds like a special offer at Power City.

Moist or Damp January are too awful to contemplate. Less Wet January is little better. ‘Wet’ anything calls to mind that awful pandemic phrase: Wet Pubs. I never saw a phrase that made me want to go into a pub less. 

A phrase that made the cosy tavern sound like a toilet block in a borstal.

Whatever it’s called, the first step in Arid January was to cut out the handy cans. Lockdown gave us a certain licence — an off-licence if you will — to blur the lines between the weekend and not-weekend. A shnakey can at the end of days ending with a y was not unheard of. Not so much that everything got blurred. It was just the one can.

But now unfortunately I’m realising that I’m at the age where the body is fine with one can as long as it can sleep through every alarm under the sun. 

But the normal waking time of neo-liberalism and the military-industrial complex is unfortunately too early.

So I was definitely motivated to at least do a bit, without getting hung up on perfect results.

First I didn’t start on January 1. The worst of all days to start anything. I didn’t even start on January 2. The second worst. Also, I didn’t rule out social occasions where a pint might happen.

I kept an open mind. A both-sides approach. The centre ground between pints and no pints but with pints in easy reach. So there was no falling off any wagons. 

I occasionally alighted gracefully from the wagon and then daintily stepped back on without needing anyone to hold me up.

As a result, without hopefully being too much of a dry shite, I’ve had precisely three delicious pints and no cans in 29 days. 

I probably have 100 quid more in my pocket and a rake of high-quality sleeps. Not long sleeps. Of course not.

There’s nothing in the rules of Arid January that said I had to stop googling reviews of Whatever We’d Just Watched On Netflix so I could decide whether I liked it or not. 

But still, I have a fighting chance of fitting everything in the recycling bin.

And the forecast for February? It’s looking like some more long dry spells but I wouldn’t rule out a few scattered showers.

And if they turn into longer spells of rain, myself and myself won’t beat ourselves up. 

In this leap year, February is a long month after all.