What it would have given me, were it able, was a polite warning and “Pace yourself, you tit” is what it would have said. I wouldn’t have listened, but all the same.
And here we are again, only no warnings from failing internal organs required, as I’m now approaching my sixth sober Christmas. Britain’s annual exercise in compulsory cheer. A tinsel-draped hostage situation where sentimentality is weaponised, Mariah Carey is on a loop so relentless that it could be used in Guantanamo and the nation collectively drinks itself into a fug of enforced goodwill.
We don’t do moderation. We do tradition. And our traditions are soaked in gin and the sort of prosecco that tastes like regret. It’s hardly surprising that, according to 2024 data from Drinkaware, nearly two-thirds of UK drinkers freely admit they’ll up the ante over Christmas, embracing excess in the spirit of seasonal ‘cheer’. Among the younger crowd, three quarters plan to drink even more than usual, with the bonus of feeling twice as much peer pressure to join in the rounds.
It’s no wonder the festive period often feels less like a celebration and more like a collective test of endurance until January comes knocking.
To illustrate how I approached things, one year I ordered around 40 bottles of assorted booze in early December, with it earmarked for the Christmas period at home, only for me to drink nearly all of it in a little more than a week. In resignation, I placed the same order again, with a similar outcome. Blurring the lines between festive and feral, I could see the problem, but I could not stop it. When I look back at my application to downing bottle after bottle – faced with opposition from my wife, and our daughter to look after – it was, quite literally, staggering.
Months after that Christmas had passed, I remember furtively swigging from bottles of pre-mixed mulled wine to take the edge off in the morning. The contents of six bottles disappeared from a forgotten and happily rediscovered cupboard, as if spirited away by confused Christmas elves with a penchant for self-sabotage. I left the empties in situ, only to be rediscovered and thrown away when I moved house – along with all the empty coke baggies secreted in bathroom cabinets and curious cubby holes. Bloody elves.
Navigating the festive season as an alcoholic in recovery is like being a vegan at a hog roast: the world is not designed with you in mind. December in Britain is a month-long homage to the bottle. And for those of us who’ve stepped off the carousel, it’s a day-at-a-time masterclass in restraint, sponsored by the Ghost of Christmas Past.
I used to love a boozy Christmas. The clink of glasses, the warm fug of mulled wine, the giddy descent into chaos. Now I watch it from the sidelines, nursing a tepid tonic and a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. The lights still twinkle and the crackers still snap, but the fizz has gone a little flat. Don’t get me wrong. I do practice gratitude for escaping the whirlpool of wine I was attempting to swim in, but Christmas viewed through sober eyes – when the nation’s collective handbrake is off – can drag a little.
So how do I navigate the season to best effect? I take enjoyment from my family and friends and my daughters’ excitement. I take it one day at a time. I accept the things I cannot change and I make efforts to change the things I can. I play it forward. I arrive late – do my socialising – and I leave early. I nurse a sparkling water like it’s a vintage claret. And when the pub fills with the sound of slurred Slade records, I slip out into the cold night air, sober and slightly sanctimonious – because I know that come January, when the bins are full, and the nation collectively swears off booze, I’ll already be ahead of the game.
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