Dry January? Amateurs, try dry life.
I’d love to tell you I’m not smug, but I just am.
It’s Dry January. For me, it’s always Dry January, and Dry April, and Dry November.
I don’t drink alcohol. It’s not because I’m religious, not because I do drugs instead, not because I had a bad experience in Sesame and ended up in Addenbroke’s.
I first tried tee-totalism at Ancient Greek Camp in Dorset. I know, “what a loser”, but I’m sure the Hugos and Pandoras reading this, as well as the classicists, must at this point be thinking “Oh, yah, Bryanston 2k12, that’s where I lost my virginity”. On the final night, an Etonian told me that I could borrow his hoodie if I had a sip of his Stella. I did it, because OMG Eton boys, but afterwards I knew peer pressure and alcohol weren’t really my thing.
To everyone who has since asked about my drinking habits, I have answered that I “just never got into it”. After this I am usually told “Oh, I could never do that”, “that’s so healthy/cheap/sad”, and then “Wait, so you’re in Cindies unironically!?”
It’s true, I’ve been known to occasionally grace da kloob, even Life (the very hallmark of clubbing), and have plans to make it to Kings Affair this year substance-free with another non-drinking pal. I’ve told friends, acquaintances and loud, ruddy-cheeked suited Downing boys that I simply don’t need alcohol to have a good time.
However, this isn’t strictly true. Life when everyone’s sober is just boring and stinks of piss, and that’s even before you go clubbing. Without alcohol, the night would be no fun and you lot have to be pretty squiffy for me to have a good time. Drunk by proxy is a thing, and that helps, but that’s not the reason.
It’s actually because I’m judging you. I’m judging all of you.
Truth is, I stay sober so that when I wake up in the morning instead of a hangover I have brain-morning-wood, but the capillaries of my mind-boner are filled with sweet, juicy scandal, and all the gaps in your memory are safely stored in mine, a wank-bank of hot, hot gossip. What can I say? Judging you gives me a rush. So, whether you like to get a little tipsy or hog-whimperingly blotto, people of Cambridge, please continue.
P.S. Keep buying me cranberry juice, thanks, but to all those people who try to put gin in my tonic, what a hilarious joke – hilariously illegal. Please never do this. Do not buy people drinks to make them drink, do not swap drinks as a joke, and don’t try to slip something into it, because we’re the sober ones and you’re the criminal one, and guess what?
We’ll remember that too.