Esther McCarthy: How Sober October went — and the exceptions that had to be made

Esther McCarthy. Picture: Emily Quinn

I'm looking at my diary.

I sometimes write notes to my future self about ideas for columns (hey, this gold doesn’t just happen you know, I have to come up with nonsense every week — it’s no joke).

In for today, October 25, I’ve scribbled: “Last Saturday in October, write about how you got on for Sober October.”

Spoiler alert: Not great.

My body has increasingly been sending me little signals that it’s time to lay off the sauce. 

A half a glass of wine and one side of my face flushes with the heat of a thousand suns. 

Beer, once the cause of — and solution to — all of my problems (to paraphrase Homer Simpson) has become a chore rather than a pleasure.

The hangovers, even for relatively small volumes of alcohol, are just rotten.

Sober October is a simple enough premise; it encourages people to give up alcohol for 31 days. It started back in 2014 as a fundraising challenge, but it has grown into something bigger.

It’s a chance to hit the reset button before the festive season kicks in. (Why is it earlier and earlier every year, for the love of GOD, give us Halloween before we’re hit with Elves on the Shelves, please?)

I’m thinking I’ll even surprise myself along the way, you know? 

Maybe I’ll turn into one of those super smug evangelising Sober Sarahs, who let you know they’re better than you because they spent their morning doing downward dogs at sunrise instead of vomiting into one of the kids’ football boots because you couldn’t make it to the bathroom in time.

God I’d love that. I’d be a brilliant Sober Sarah. But let’s face it, I’m typical of my generation. 

I don’t think I’ve ever followed up the sentence “sure we’ll just have the one” without it turning into dancing on the table in the Idle Hour followed by a chsipppss anna currrry anna breasht in a bun, hun.

Maybe I’ll find myself doing all sorts of wholesome things on a Sunday morning, like remembering where the car is.

I really don’t drink much of anything these days, so it should be easy. Sure where do I be going? I research the perks of abstinence.

Apparently, they kick in fast. After a week or two, you might notice better sleep, clearer skin, less bloating, and actual energy (I think I vaguely remember that).

Studies suggest your mood lifts, the brain fog clears, and your tappy thing on your phone that pays for things stops making that startling siren noise.

For women in their forties and beyond — hello there, my sisters in arms! — it’s also a nice way to give your hormones, liver, and bladder a break. 

So, it’s a no-brainer, right? 31 days, giving up something I don’t really like anymore? 

Can I swap my pint for a peppermint tea? Pffft, easy, peasy, lemon squeezy — but not over a vodka. That over-confidence was to be my downfall.

I started off my Sober October journey with pure intent. Then, the first weekend is a night away in Kilkenny with some friends.

They got me a pressie months ago of a sculpture workshop with the fabulous artist Glenn Gibson in Castlecomer, followed by dinner and drinks. 

This has been in the diary forever, it’s the only weekend that suits everyone. I can’t bail. I’ll just go and not drink alco... God, I can’t even finish that sentence with a straight face.

I didn’t do the dog, but I did neck a couple of cocktails and a beer or two, and yes, my face exploded and I felt like a damp turd for a couple of days after.

I had regrets, but also a very cute wire sheep (that Glenn said was better than all the others, suck it losers) and some precious memories with some fabulous gals, so it evened out.

Right! Back on the wagon. No messing now. Whoopsie! Am booked in for a trip to Milan and Venice for four days the following week. I forgot about that.

It would be downright rude to refuse Italians who are offering me a taste of their culture. And I’m many things, dear reader, but rude I am n... ah, I can’t finish that sentence either with a straight face. I cheerfully drank my own body weight in cheeky Chiantis and limoncellos.

My face combusted again, I put on three stone, but I flew home with renewed determination to finish the second half of the month in a haze of serenity and zero zeros.

Whelp. Didn’t I forget about ieStyle, the Irish Examiner’s big night of fashion, fabulousness and fun in the City Hall? 

Ok, I told myself sternly in the mirror, just have ONE G&T to be sociable. After all, Malfy Gin are one of the sponsors, so really, it’s for WORK.

Cut to 2.30am in the Crane Lane and the bouncer bellowing in my face, “Move along, there folks”, and me face-palming for another fail.

And next weekend is the actual Jazz Fest, I mean COME ON. A sober Cork person at the jazz? Seriously? But look, at least I gave it a shot (of Sambuca).

Maybe I’ll try November instea... Nah, can’t finish that one either.