Esther McCarthy: Why I haven’t had a drink in exactly eight weeks

It’s hard to break the booze habit in Ireland

I reserve the right to crack open a bottle of fizz to celebrate... But maybe it’ll be one of those zero-zero ones

Rosie O'Donnell, who seems like a sensible sort, recently told Seth Meyers on Late Night that “nobody drinks more” than the Irish. O’Donnell moved here with her child about 18 months ago, and said our drinking habits were highlighted to her when she visited her GP. On a new patient form, the question “How many drinks do you have in a week?” had its first option as “1 to 15.”

She found it “not that hard” to reach 15 a week in Ireland. She also mentioned her favourite beer here is Smithwick’s, so maybe take the rest with a pinch of salt (followed by a tequila shot, then suck a lemon, and SLAM!)

It got me thinking, though, because, as of today, I haven’t had a drink in exactly eight weeks. I’m not saying I’m an alcoholic or anything like that. I’ve probably gone longer without noticing before this. Since my pal perimenopause kicked in, I’d been quietly giving up drinks that no longer agree with me anyway. 

Wine of any colour or vintage turns my face into a hot turnip. Two sips of beer and aeroplanes could land by the glow off me. So I was already easing back, no grand plan involved, just listening to my body a bit.

Then I had an impromptu night around a kitchen table with a group of friends. A few drinks in, one of the lads produced whiskey, and sure says I, g’wan so, for the craic, and there I am necking neat Paddy’s of a Friday because the gin I’d had earlier whispered: “It’s GRAND, you’re invincible, let’s gooooooo. Don’t you dare embarrass us by asking for a splash of ginger ale.”

And then the next day, my stomach, liver, head, and HRT patch turned on me, arms folded crossly: “Oh, good morning, idiot. Thanks for messing us up, sipping whiskey like you’re Bill Murray in Tokyo. Pah! Cheers to feeling rotten for the day.”

Like, what was I trying to prove? That I could out-drink a man who actually likes whiskey? That I am above the laws of science and biology? Ugh, I hadn’t been that hungover in years, and it flattened me.

Here’s the thing though: As evidenced by the Paddy’s sitch, I’m not great on the old moderation. Then I overcorrect. I once bet my husband I wouldn’t buy a single new item of clothing for a year, announced it to everyone, wrote a whole feature about it, went on the radio and all. I truly did believe I had enough clothes to last me a lifetime. But then the year was up and I found myself obsessed with Vinted, buying more secondhand clothes than I ever could wear.

That’s the pattern.

Quiet self-improvement isn’t dramatic enough for me. I need witnesses, like calm down Scarlett O’Hara, I need to tell myself. So instead of thinking “maybe ease off the top shelf girl”, my brain, still reeling, grabbed for the nuclear option and announced to the group that I was giving up drink entirely. For a year.

Now, in another two months of the calendar that wouldn’t have meant much, I could do a January standing on my head. Obviously, pregnancy, breastfeeding, being under ooh, let’s say 15, none of that counts, because the choice is made for you. This was an entirely unnecessary, unforced, fully public act of self-sabotage-as-self-improvement, and I was stuck with it. 

Which is how I ended up sober at all the summer gigs, including Bell X1, Paul Weller, and CMAT. Dry as a bone through a colleague’s leaving do, birthday bashes, a dinner party with gorgeous people I was dying to crash, straight through to Best Friends 4eva status, as you can only do when you’re all at that golden three-drinks-in stage. All occasions I’d usually have relished a couple of scoops to enhance the experience. But, what do you know, I had an absolute ball at everything, booze-free.

The real test was a family wedding a couple of weeks ago. I did the thing where you half step outside yourself and watch how you’re coping. I danced all night. Had brilliant, proper conversations and catch-ups. Laughed till my face hurt.

Sure, no one gave a toss whether I was drinking, though I told them anyway, going around like Dom Joly on the giant mobile, shoving my sparkling water into faces, roaring I’M ON THE DRY. Nobody cared. And at the end of the night I drove myself home, got up early the next morning for an appointment, dread-free and completely hydrated, and high on the smugness of it all.

From when our head is wet when we’re born, to when our loved ones raise a glass to us at our funeral, alcohol is ever-present in the celebrations of our lives. It’s hard to break the habit.

So I’m not going to say I’m never drinking again — and if you see me crashing through a window somewhere like Henry Sellers, just ignore me. I know my own form and my big mouth and my love of a cocktail too well.

Let’s consider this an interim report, not a victory lap. Ask me again on the new patient form in 10 months’ time. I reserve the right to crack open a bottle of fizz to celebrate... But maybe it’ll be one of those zero-zero ones, the Prosecc-no. Cheers to that.