We’re inducting
our children into
the cult of booze
n news that will
disappoint those who
like to regard all
society’s ills as
originating with the
disadvantaged, middle-
class children have been found to be
almost twice as likely as poorer
classmates to consume alcohol,
according to the NHS. As with the
figures for female drinking –
particularly rampant among the highly
educated, argues the Organisation for
Economic Co-operation and
Development (OECD) – it is the
privileged who are our most
kamikaze booze hounds.
As Andrew Misell, of the drink
awareness charity Alcohol Change
UK, observed: “Perhaps in more
affluent families [there] is the belief
that our European neighbours avoid
many alcohol problems by
introducing children... early on. In
reality, the amounts of alcohol given
to children in the wine-drinking
countries of Europe are very small;
and... occur as part of an overall
moderate drinking culture. The
situation in the UK is very different.”
I’ll say. As I write, I am shortly to
turn five years’ sober. “Didn’t that fly
by?” you may cry. Actually, no. A year
into being on the wagon, I wrote a
long account for this newspaper inwhich I explained that – if my tone
sounded uncelebratory – then that
was about the sum of it. Atheist that I
am, I was reminded T S Eliot’s
Journey of the Magi: a “cold coming”,
hard, thankless, the benefits of which
might be grudging, yet vital; a birth
that was like a death, and a return to
an old life in which “an alien people”
clutched at their gods. Christians
may dislike the comparison, but this
was a postlapsarian existence, scales
fallen, sight restored.
Now sobriety is just real –
occasionally dragging, but finally
stable – life. Back then I could see it
all clearly: the way the mother’s ruin
had impacted on my work, my
relationships, my brain; the way I’d
created my very personality around
the constant hit of a drink. Because,
like so many Brits, I started young. In
my drinking days (or rather daze), I
took being introduced to wine at thedomestic dinner table to be the great
liberal ideal. Now I’m not so sure. I
adored my permissive parents – and
would be a permissive parent myself- but, by normalising booze, we
induct our children into Britain’s
cultishly alcogenic society.
In and outside the home, my
parents let us teenagers drink in a
way that they would never have
contemplated allowing us to take
drugs or smoke. My father drank with
dinner so was happy for me to drink
with friends. I was aided by the fact
that I looked older than I was. At 14, I
could order a round in school uniform
and be asked whether it was wear-
your-uniform-to-work day. I had been
an awkward, painfully self-conscious
child, but alcohol propelled me from
introvert to extrovert, and extrovert
is what I intended to remain.
Besides, I was good at drinking,
born to it, one might say. One Easter,
I joked that I had stigmata on my
palms. My doctor father informed me
that they were more likely to be liver
spots. And how I dined – or rather
drank – out on that story. Drinking
together was how he and I expressed
our love. We were big boozers, big
characters, taking on the world several
bottles at a time. I loved it. I loved him.
Naturally, I continued the “get ’em
young” tradition, creating a
“glamorous” cocktail-making kit as my
eight-year old niece’s birthday present.
In fairness, I didn’t expect her to
actually put away these concoctions,
but alcohol was how my family
interacted. If I understand our
society’s obliviousness about booze, it
is because I was once most oblivious.
From 13 to 43, drink was what I did:
my sole hobby and lone joy. Once,
while participating in a work bonding
exercise, I was asked to drive the group
on an imaginary bus to wherever I
wanted to end up – some epic
ambition. I drove it to Claridge’s bar.
“Don’t ruin this for everyone,” pleaded
the team leader. I wasn’t trying to. It
was genuinely where I wanted to be.
Boozing was how I defined myself.
Drink was cool, fun, feminist, a lifeline
as it was a blast. Until it wasn’t.
Once addiction has been
defamiliarised, you see it everywhere
and I saw it at home.
My father’s declared ambition was
to drink himself to death, and he
succeeded, three years ago, at the age
of 76. Friends still assure me it’s “a
good way to go”. It isn’t. It’s a lonely
and lacerating demise and I would
have done anything to spare him. He
wanted his body to be left to medical
science, but it was too devastated.
Writing this makes me weep. I know
I’m violating my
father’s privacy – his
final privacy – and
will refrain from
going into further
detail. However, I
am determined to
use his example – as
I will use my own – if
it can be of use to
other problem
drinkers. And, really,
how many Britons
are unproblematic
drinkers?
My father was the
brightest and most
brilliant of men, but
he gave up the last
years of his life to
his addiction.
No longer a child,
I’m finally rejecting
his dinner-table
example.
I
have never understood why book
groups should be about loud-
mouthed louts sounding off rather
than truly book-loving souls sitting
mutely reading. Well, the silent book
group is upon us – in San Francisco,
Bangalore and London, apparently.
However, surely this is a movement
that should be springing up
everywhere there are bibliophiles? Its
formula is simple: an hour’s gentle
page turning – end of. No smart a---ry,
no competitive canapé action, and
definitely no discussion about
Pauline’s divorce.
My book group experience is
limited – OK, nil – because I cannot
think of an experience more likely to
make me want to top myself. As a
former English student, then lecturer,
tutorials were bad enough: all thatposturing and questions that were
actually statements about how
brilliant people imagined they were.
The idea of doing this for social
purposes is unimaginable. A
spontaneous discussion about how
brilliant, or awful, a book is? Count me
in. A night of pre-packaged suburban
pseudery? God save us all.
When a friend complained that no
one ever discussed the book during
his book group, I composed him a
1066 and All That-style quiz about the
tome in question. It was meant to be a
bitingly satirical gesture that finished
off said gathering for good. In fact,
everyone loved it, insisting on having
20 minutes to pencil their notes.
One of the things I prize most about
my relationship is my partner’s
capacity to understand my need to sit
in silence, book in hand. If ever his
extroversion gets too much for me, he
will say “Shall we do ‘quiet reading’?”
in the manner of the world’s kindest
primary schoolteacher. I find it the
most erotic phrase in our lexicon.I’m (silently)
cheering this
new breed of
book club
I
T
he crazy cat lady
stereotype extends as far
back as the medieval
bestseller Malleus Maleficarum
(Hammer of Witches), in which
a trio of broads take on feline
form, attack some chap while
he’s chopping wood, and have
him banged up for assault.
More recently, we have
gibbering lush Eleanor
Abernathy in The Simpsons, her
hair often covered with her cat
companions; 30 Rock’s Liz
Lemon, who goes mog mad
after a break-up; and Michelle
Pfeiffer’s 1992 star turn as a
Catwoman in Batman Returns.
Well, witness another
time-honoured misogyny bite
the dust. It turns out cat ladies
are no more neurotic than dog
people, or – one assumes –
people people.
Researchers from the
University of California have
discovered precisely noevidence of differing levels of
depression, anxiety, or
loneliness between cat and dog
owners. What’s more, an
in-depth study from the Czech
Republic this week announced
that pet owners – in particular,
dog owners – have better
cardiovascular health than
those with no pets.
It was these virtues that
prompted my partner to fulfilmy ticking canine clock last
year by furnishing me with
Pimlico the blue whippet.
Accordingly, it is with some
authority I can confirm that –
while the crazy cat lady may not
exist – the nutjob dog human is
alive and kicking. A day does
not go by when my beloved and
I are not locked in an
internecine battle as to whom
our charge loves more.
Obviously, it is I who should
be leader of the pack, given that
I longed for her for decades,
spend every waking minute
with her, dream about her
incessantly, kiss her constantly,
take her for more compelling
walks, am cognisant of her stick
needs, let her sleep on top of
me, repeatedly save her life,
and presented her with three
boxes of Co-op value mince for
her birthday.
And yet, her true passion is
reserved for Terence, whom I
bitterly refer to as “your
boyfriend”, as she flies at him
ecstatically, and pines over him
when he’s at work.
Still, he leaves tomorrow for
three weeks’ vagrancy (sorry,
wild camping), and I am not
above buying her love. Let
mince month commence.‘Crazy cat lady’ is dead,
viva nutjob dog owners
Just a small glass:
the Europeans’
moderate drinking
culture is rather
different from
boozy BritainDrink was how I
defined myself. Cool,
fun, a lifeline as it was
a blast. Until it wasn’t
Surely this should
be springing up
everywhere there
are bibliophiles?
The new love of my life: Pimlico,
my blue whippetHannah Betts
Online
telegraph.co.uk/
opinion
Twitter
@HannahJBettsITV/REXFrom big
hair to
Love Island
nails, teens
love to
flirt with
danger
A Tyneside
school has
banned fake
nails because its
pupils are
finding it
impossible to
write. I know
this after seeing
my niece with
falsies so
disabling she
was unable to
wield pen or fork
(albeit she was
still able to
remain on her
phone). Think:
the Love Island
look – all
cartoonish
exaggerations of
lash, lip and
talon that render
well on
Instagram, but,
in real life,
appear
grotesque.Back in my
teens, it was
giant hair that
was supposed to
imperil us, lest
our Elnette catch
light in a Bunsen
burner.
Meanwhile,
earrings could
be rent from
lobes and
stilettos maim
bystanders.
Teachers’ right
to knock pupils’
attempts at
self-adornment
is as inalienable
as students’ right
to ignore them.
In fact,
matters tend to
get toned down
as time goes by.
In the spring, my
niece’s false
lashes were
gruesomearachnids. Now
she boasts chic
extensions. Back
then, she glued a
fingernail to her
tongue. Now she
scoffs at such
ineptitude.
Besides, it’s
not as if we
oldsters know
anything with
our middle-aged
maquillages.
Watching
HBO’s
supposedly
scandalous
(actually rather
charming)
Euphoria, I have
found myself
longing to
emulate heroine
Jules’s eye
artistry. As for
my lashes, they
are sadly
lacklustre.Ta l o n s : Love Island
contestants such
as Anna Vakili,
top, were known
for their long nails(Judith Woods is away)
The Daily Telegraph Friday 23 August 2019 *** 23
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