Listen up people,
Finally you can breath a sigh of relief, it’s time to start giving up on resolutions and start having some fun…
Finally. Now we can cast aside those sinister thoughts against those smug members of the detox brigade, posting drivel on Facebook about every egg white they’ve eaten and smiling jocundly to themselves as the rest of us grip the sides of our hungover heads.It’s almost been two months since the arrival of New Year – meaning that most of our resolutions are probably well and truly dead by now (cue cheers). Feel free to embrace hedonism without remorse. Now no-one will even bat an eyelid over those three jugs of Cheeky Vimto you might be currently enjoying at Wetherspoon’s.
Now I don’t know about you, but having gone almost two months listening to people bang on about their “wheat-free diets,” announcing their profound misery, mid-squat, over having to watch Alan Carr Chatty Man on Friday’s instead of hitting the pub, somehow brainwashes (should really say inspires) you to end up joining them.
It becomes a sort of epidemic, a dreary time where even the thought of seeking our usual pleasures – such as a cheeky glass of red or the last few Celebrations left over from Christmas – becomes a conscience-berating effort.
So there I was, transported (and guilt-tripped) to the island where cocktails are “the devil” and white bread inflicts repulsion upon faces already amassed with condemnation, enviously watching revellers stagger out their cheap bars at 8pm on Friday’s while chowing down my tasteless Sculptress bar. I deserted nights out with the few friends who weren’t on detoxes, and embarked on the boring journey that is teetotal. However now that February is coming to an end, so is that whole HealthVille mentality for most people.
Now don’t get me wrong, it was rather invigorating and all that other malarkey at the time, but my poor drinking friends were starting to think that I’d turned into Gillian McKeith.
“What do you mean you don’t want a vodka?” cried my startled friend, her face contorted in an expression of such dismay and horror, that it would seem as if I’d just told her I was turning Mormon. “But it’s Saturday!” she shrilled, slamming her fist on the table. All I could do was nod my head sagely in return. Although she didn’t attempt to argue, I could almost see her mentally removing me from her life, drawing up a list of new, still-up-for-partying friends who wouldn’t dare refuse the drinks menu in favour of skim-milk Americano’s with half a Sweetex.
You see, almost just as soon as you join that teetotal bandwagon, somehow you end up becoming one of those boring people who announce, just as soon as you get into the party, that you “can’t stay out late,” disappointing your fellow boozers, who will then become wary that you’ll wind up remembering every incoherent thing they’ve said. These are the times that they will want to punch you.
Another downside to being teetotal is that everyone automatically presumes you’re a recovering alcoholic. “I’m just trying to be healthier,” you’ll say, wide-eyed and alert from all that extra kip you’re getting, while the listener mentally begins to calculate all the times you’ve fallen drunkenly down a flight of stairs. They will then most likely offer to go to the cinema with you. “We don’t need drink to have fun!” they’ll chirp merrily, before proceeding to scarf down diabetes-inducing amounts of pick ‘n’ mix sweets in a bid to get some sort of buzz in watching yet another Sandra Bullock film.
Although I never drank excessively, going out to a bar without a drink in hand sometimes seemed positively preposterous. You can almost guarantee that having a sober one will never lead to one of those iconic nights that you cackle about with your friends the next day.
So although being booze-free made me feel a lot more saintly and productive than I could have ever imagined, I can’t help but notice that it made certain occasions seem a lot less interesting than it would have when combined with the giddy effects of alcohol. Spontaneity, random but indeed hilarious conversations and a rather surreal journey home never happens when you’re back by midnight, carefully removing your makeup and sipping herbal tea while your friends embark on their drinking-sambuca-from-pots party.
There is only so long that you can remain on that dark, dank island of sobriety and chamomile tea before planning to throw yourself into the sea from boredom.
Besides, I just think that us Scots just aren’t cut out for the whole detox thing on a permanent level. Plus no-one really likes Gillian McKeith do they? She examines poo for Christ’s sake. Thank heavens we’re all such quitters.