The Reason I Drank

I thought I drank for hundreds of reasons. Actually, there was only one. Maybe it's yours, too

“All of the above, please, barkeep.” Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

I’ve often written about drinking, particularly since I gave up. Editors generally want triumph over tragedy, so they like to me to say that not only did my mental health improve, but my skin glowed like a nuclear reactor and I slept like Dorothy in a field of opium poppies. (‘Actually, can you take out the drugs reference here? Not sure our readers will like that.’) The truth is, I didn’t feel that much better. I just didn’t feel awful anymore.

Besides, it was never really tragedy. I didn’t hit rock bottom, or find myself alone in a bar at chucking-out time, crying into my twelfth tepid Manhattan. I didn’t even do the thing Millennial dating columnists love writing about, where I had lonely, self-loathing sex with the barman and started an earnest podcast about modern feminism off the back of it.

I might have been ‘white wine, no tea’ sick a few times, and possibly made some below par life decisions when drunk. I once hit my ex with my handbag in front of Brookside actress and reality TV stalwart Claire Sweeney, in the neon stairwell of a particularly naff club. I definitely had some terrible hangovers, that felt like dwarves mining the inside of my head for pellets of dung, while the Bay of Biscay rolled through my intestines with all its assorted sea life.

Very, very bad hangovers. Where you have to hold on to the floor really hard. Photo by Alice on Unsplash

Strangely, when you have food poisoning, you seldom want to eat that terrible, toxic food ever again. I recently ate a dodgy oyster and once I could speak, swore I would never touch another of the slimy, rock-pooly, bastard bivalves ever again. Anything you need a chisel to open should probably stay shut, unless it’s a medieval treasure chest, and even then, it was probably cursed by a dying king.

Drink, however, does not have this effect. Everyone remembers their first killer drink. It’s a topic beloved of data-mining posts - ‘What was the first drink that made you ill?’ on a background of cheerful straws and pineapples, and 900 people write ‘tequila! ha ha, remember, Sue Pearson??’ and tag their unwitting friends to be data-mined too.

‘Sorry Elaine, but it’s a new sofa…’

Yet despite being violently sick, utterly bollocked by whichever parent had to come and get you (‘Sorry Elaine, but it’s a new sofa, would you mind picking her up..?’) and quite possibly, crying in front of half of Year Ten and the boy you were in love with, it still doesn’t really put you off drinking. For all the white-faced morning shuddering, and the parental huffing about ‘learning your lesson’, it’s only a matter of days before you’re planning to smuggle vodka and orange on the school trip to Chester in Katie Wilson’s tartan thermos.

It’s not about the taste, because as everyone knows, all teen alcohol tastes like either Love Hearts crushed into vinegar, or the scum you get on fermented baking yeast. It’s certainly not about ease of supply, when it involved stealing Parfait Amour from the drinks cabinet, with its top encrusted since the trip to Greece seven years ago, or paying someone bigger to buy whatever was cheapest at Thresher.

“Next thing I knew, it was morning and I woke up in an aviary with some angry toucans.” Photo by Norbert Kundrak on Unsplash

In fact, the urge to keep drinking, even after the illness and humiliation of the first time, was inculcated by the culture we swam in.

Drinkers were fun and exciting and brave, non-drinkers were boring squares who were probably happier on a Duke of Edinburgh trek up Mam Tor, filling in worksheets about rock formations.

Drinking was experimental, rock and roll, enjoyed by people who had sex and money, not drinking was childish and fearful and enjoyed by people who did their homework on a Friday night.

Holiday sangria and pub beer, sophisticated wine and decadent spirits…

Of course, it all came from our peers, but where did they get it from? I assume from the endless fawning interviews with actors and bands famed for their “bad behaviour”, adverts showing glamorous grown-ups drinking and having a fabulous time, people in TV dramas doing the same, couples in films clinking bottles or drinking cocktails, images of holiday sangria and pub beer, sophisticated wine and decadent spirits. And, of course, parents who drank. (My dad did, but my mum didn’t).

So it didn’t matter how foul it tasted or how sick it made you; you had to do it because everyone else you wanted to be or wanted to be with did it too. And eventually, you learned to like it - even rely on it.

I got drunk for the first time when I was 13. I was at a summer wedding with my parents, and waiters were circulating with trays of Pimms and lemonade. I was wearing heels, make-up and a hat - it seems ridiculous now, but in 1984, young teens tottering about in stilettos was entirely normal - so I looked older than I was. I liked this new drink a great deal, so I drank several, which fuelled my enthusiastic dancing to Billy Joel.

I ended up lying on the bride’s parents’ bathroom floor with my mum shouting increasingly frantic threats through the keyhole. I was having a lovely time, drifting away, free of anxiety for probably the first time in my childhood.

When I finally emerged, I was in big trouble, but I didn’t care. I’d discovered a magical shield, an internal panic- room I could go to when things were difficult, where nothing and nobody could trouble me too much.

“All done, now let’s get hammered.” Photo by Victoria Priessnitz on Unsplash

As I said, this isn’t a tragic tale. The truth is, I felt drinking worked incredibly well for me, for a long time. The terrible hangovers were the price I willingly paid for a substance that eased anxiety, turned boredom into fun, made dull people more interesting, and provided an instant portal to escape through, like a tunnel opening up before Wile E. Coyote.

‘It took many years to understand that it was a shoddily painted tunnel…’

It took me many years to understand that it was always a shoddily painted tunnel and instead, I was heading to the edge of a cliff with an Acme anvil about to drop on my head, legs pedalling frantically to keep the manufactured fun alive.

I never thought I’d be able to stop drinking. I didn’t want to - I was furious if anyone suggested it. I didn’t drink THAT much. Anyway, I’m a journalist and journalists drink. My whole social life was based on drinking, all my friends drank, the idea of going to an opening or event or wedding or party without a drink was horrendous - partly because I’m quite shy but had forgotten after years of burying it under my sparkling, Life of the Party, Drink-er-ama persona, which had begun to feel like the real me - and partly because deep down, I suspected I didn’t like several of the people I hung out with all that much but if I stopped, I might be lonely.

This is a really uncomfortable way to sit when you’re lonely. Photo by Anthony Tran on Unsplash

In the end, in my forties, I stopped because every time I had a drink, my face flushed bright pink. I also found wine made my eyes itch, all alcohol, in any quantity, made me feel tired, and suddenly, I wasn’t getting pleasantly drunk, I was skipping straight to the hangover without passing go. It was deeply miserable. Eventually, I thought I’d try stopping for a bit, and all the weird symptoms went away.

That was nearly five years ago, and I still don’t drink, bar the odd glass of champagne at Christmas and birthdays. It always tastes and smells like nail varnish remover. I do it mostly to remind me that I don’t want to drink again. And it also goes straight to my head and reminds me of that misty, forgetful, easy place I used to visit all the time.

Now, though, it’s different, because I don’t enjoy going there. When I do, I feel my clarity has been stolen, and that I’m in danger of losing myself. I don’t want to enjoy company that would bore me rigid sober, I don’t want the clattery, glittery pretence of being confident when I’m not. I like life the way it is, stripped down to stark reality and occasionally painful as a result.

There is no judgment here. Many millions of people find the buffering softness of alcohol necessary after a hard day, and I used to be one of them. But I do wonder why we have created a world we’re so desperate to escape from so often.

“You’re the lady I’ve looked for…come with me and escape.” Photo by Vladimir Fedotov on Unsplash

In therapy, they teach that there’s no way round pain - you just have to go through it, and anything else is simply deferring. I agree with that.

I also know that for everyone nodding along, someone will be saying, ‘er, just because I enjoy a glass of of wine doesn’t mean I’m “avoiding pain”! Christ, lighten up!’ But I disagree. All drinking is avoiding pain, whether it’s the pain of being left out, being square, being bored, being shy, being tired, being lonely, being filled with self-loathing… it’s all pain, big and small.

Not drinking forces you to deal with it in other ways. Mostly, I eat highly calorific food. Or I use reading as an escape, almost pathologically. I might write about that one day. Or I go for a walk, or I have a boiling bath. And then another bath, a bit later.

Sobriety has not in any way perfected or even improved me. But it has made me see myself with fresh eyes. It has made me aware that drinking itself isn’t fun, or cool, or truly enjoyable. It’s a panic room, where we go to escape from whatever threatens us. We are only animals, after all - and everyone needs somewhere to hide.

Keep reading for more…

LOCHED UP: My Life in Rural Scotland

The fuel and wood situation

Every week, I’ll dig about in the lightly diseased vegetable patch of my own life, pulling up turnips of interest to present to the judges of the county show (you, the readers). Thankfully, this metaphor now ends.

Let’s set the scene: Imagine people dressed in black, dragging flats onto the stage. Up front, a small, white, one-storey cottage with two bedrooms (the Daily Mail always wants to know, so counting bedrooms is now a habit. ‘Never mind what she died of, how many bedrooms?’) and behind it, an enormous painted backdrop of a loch, mountains, and pine trees. On the other side, a vast field of sheep and in the distance, the house of neighbours Chris and Anna and their elderly dog.

Down the drive, just visible, is a large, old farmhouse where Andy’s dad and step-mum live, with an enormous garden where Andy’s dad grows a variety of flowers and vegetables, and a small cherry orchard.

It all appears idyllic.

Andy’s Dads dahlias. A thing of beauty and a joy for about two weeks.

The lights come up, and our main characters wander onto the stage. Flic, her husband Andy and their spaniels, noble Ellroy, and his wayward son, Larkin.

Now, our story can unfold…

I say that as if there’s a coherent narrative, but of course, there isn’t, there’s only ‘what we’re worried about this week’. Andy and I are not nature’s chilled-out types. We recently did a Facebook personality quiz, (I made him) and while I was a tense ‘advocate’, forever fretting about global justice, he was a stressed ‘virtuoso’ perfectionist. So ‘relaxed’ isn’t really a thing here, despite the glorious backdrop.

This week, then, we have been worrying, like both Withnail and I, about the fuel and wood situation. I am the person who goes past the thermostat and turns it up for luck every time, even though Andy repeatedly insists this is ‘not how the thermostat works’. If we were Pixar characters, I’d be Buzz Lightyear and he’d be Wall-e, trundling after me, sadly reaping the consequences of my thoughtless confidence.

Andy, every September. Photo by Yancy Min on Unsplash

I am constantly cold, because I am quite small, and also, as I regularly point out, we live in rural Argyll, not known for its tropical sunlight. He replies that it’s because I’m not wearing enough merino jumpers. He is in the throes of a lifelong love affair with merino wool, and believes it is the cure for every ill, including hypothermia, pneumonia and general anxiety. (By contrast, I have a love of charity shop cashmere and if I could, would keep goats and learn to spin my own wool. Why I can’t will be explored in a future, perhaps more bitter, column).

To be fair, I grew up in Manchester, coddled in a 1980s suburban hot-house, where the radiators came on before I got up for school. By contrast, Andy was raised in a rusty ice bucket (and it never did him any harm).

This winter, then, we will be reliant on very occasional permitted bursts of radiator, supplemented by a wood fire only when the dogs frost over. Normally, I beg like an irritating child for a fire every night, because Andy is very good at building them, and it makes me feel I married a fairytale woodcutter, as opposed to someone with a business MSc from Stirling. This year, ‘once the wood pile runs out, that’s it’, apparently, so we’ll be staring into an empty fireplace all January.

How the fire SHOULD look. When Ellroy isn’t blocking all the heat.

He’s already appointed himself ‘The Warden of Save’ and goes about grumpily switching lights off like the Dad’s Army of electricity. I have invested in knee-length merino socks (in the sale, Ganni, from Matches Fashion, obviously), and have a vast pile of moth-eaten jumpers lying in readiness. I’m still dreading it.

We both work from home, and throughout the year, having a rolling debate about whether it’s ‘pleasantly temperate’ (me) or ‘obscenely roasting’ (him). If he could, Andy would have all the windows open and a keen wind whistling through the house to keep things ‘fresh’, blizzard or no blizzard.

In comparison, I am a weak tomato plant, flourishing only in the greenhouse warmth of a thermostat turned to a hearty 22°C. Maybe 24 if there’s a light frost on the lawn.

I know I need to rein it in, I’m not Marie Antoinette (maybe her impoverished second cousin), but living in a shadowed valley by an enormous, icy loch as the autumnal Atlantic winds blow in… I think we’re going to need a bigger goat.

RECIPE OF THE WEEK: PARMIGIANA

A disclaimer: Or is it a claimer? I never cook with meat. I will do fish and some seafood - though never squid and octopus because they’re intelligent. Otherwise, all my recipes are pesc- or veg-friendly. If it’s vegan, I’ll let you know. (I was vegan for three years, and still would be if it wasn’t for a ludicrous allergy).

Every week, I’ll share a recipe I’ve tried and loved. I write recipes and style food-shoots as part of my job, so you can trust me, honest. There will be no three-page preamble about how my grandma used to cook this back in Maine, either (because she lived in West Didsbury for a start), so we’ll crack on.

I make parmigiana all the time. I hate aubergine generally, but this solves the problem by making it delicious. This is based on Sophia Loren’s recipe, from her fabulous cookbook, Eat With Me, and seldom goes wrong. It’s nice with a rocket and (vegetarian) Parmesan salad and bread.

Don’t thank me, thank Sophia.

Serves 2

Ingredients

one decent-sized aubergine, the glossier the better

about 200ml olive oil

1 x 400ml tin of chopped tomatoes

1 large clove of garlic, finely chopped

a few leaves of basil

1 egg

1 ball of mozzarella

salt and pepper*

Method

1 Preheat the oven to 180°C (160°C fan).

2 Cut the aubergine widthways into slices about 1/2 cm thick, and brush them with oil. Give them a light blast of salt and pepper and lay them on an oiled baking tray (possibly two if they won’t fit).

3 Bake them for about 15 mins, then turn them all over and bake for another 10-15. If they’re too thin they’ll start to blacken - if so, cover in foil. You want them to be soft all over. If they’re still firm, brush on more oil and leave a few more minutes.

4 Meanwhile, add a tablespoon of olive oil to a frying pan and cook the garlic over a low heat until it softens. Mix in the tomatoes, cook down slightly, then add salt, pepper and basil. If it’s too acidic, add 1/2 tsp of sugar. Set aside.

5 Whisk the egg in a jug, and cut the mozzarella into slices.

6 Oil a 1/2 litre baking dish. Spread a bit of tomato mix on the base, then add a layer of aubergine slices. Pour over about 1/3 of the egg, add a few slices of mozzarella, and another layer of tomato sauce. Repeat until you have a top layer of tomato sauce. Add the last few slice of mozzarella, sprinkle some shredded basil and pepper on top and bake for 40 minutes, or until it’s golden brown on top and the aubergine has collapsed like a tickled kitten.

*Recipes always say ‘freshly ground black pepper.’ Obviously, that’s ideal but any pepper will do.

Another easy recipe is coming next week…