We’re halfway through the first month of 2025 and the virtue-signalling chatter has already reached an irritating peak.
I’m talking, of course, about Dry January, the heavily promoted month of abstinence that has people moaning as though they’re going on a trek up Everest or being forced to work in a coal mine for a month rather than – horrors – choosing not to consume alcohol for a few weeks.
One friend even refused to go for supper at a new restaurant last weekend, complaining: ‘I’ll just want to have a glass of wine.’
Meanwhile, colleagues no longer want a post-work catch-up. ‘What’s the point?’, one told me.
Another friend made a point of messaging me to say she was drinking a non-alcoholic beer in the pub. What did she want? A round of applause.
All this conspicuous self-sacrifice is inevitably supported by the advertising that goes hand in hand with such a good marketing opportunity.
My inbox is full of ‘How to get through Dry January’ emails from various companies, and social media is awash with special offers from high-end non-alcoholic drinks firms.
But frankly, if you feel the need to give up drinking, then do – and if it’s a genuine struggle, then perhaps you need to have a serious think about your alcohol consumption in general. Either way, stop moaning about it.
It’s frankly pathetic to bleat on about how you’re having to stay in because you can’t have fun without booze.
You may be wondering why I’m so angry. After all, other people’s lifestyle choices aren’t my problem and nobody is forcing me to read the emails.
But eight years ago my older brother, Sam, died in his late-50s from alcohol-related problems after struggling with addiction for a good 20 years.
Having seen actual addiction playing out in hideous slow-motion, people fussing about giving up a glass of wine at Sunday lunch is frankly ‘triggering’ (yes, I hate that word too) and infuriating.
After a booze-sodden Christmas – addicts love the festive season because it’s an excuse to drink at any time of day – Sam would announce he was doing Dry January with the air of someone about to find a cure for cancer.
We lived near to each other in Oxfordshire; he was long-divorced and had no children, so I saw him most days, listening patiently and cradling a cup of coffee as he wittered about ‘cutting down’ for ever and ‘not going back to drinking as much’.
Most importantly, he said, being able to stop drinking for a month proved that he didn’t have a problem with alcohol. After all, a ‘real’ alcoholic wouldn’t be able to do Dry January.
And every time, I was filled with hope that this might be the year when he’d manage to stay sober. But the moment February started, I’d watch in despair as he sank back into his old ways, starting with a couple of beers at lunchtime – ‘just the one’ – moving on to pre-prandial gin and tonics and then drinking whisky all evening until he passed out.
I frequently visited Sam terrified that I’d find him injured or worse. To him, Dry January was simply an excuse for his behaviour the rest of the year.
Let me say that I can see the point of Dry January if it makes people who aren’t addicts consider their drinking habits.
That’s why it was originally conceived. We are, after all, a famously boozy nation and research suggests there are no safe levels of alcohol intake.
Dry January began in 2013, launched by Alcohol Change UK, with 4,000 people taking part that year. Almost nine million people took part last year and 2025 is said to be the dryest January so far, with 15.5 million thought to have taken the month off booze.
And it’s incredibly successful. According to Alcohol Change UK, 70 per cent of those who take part are still drinking less six months later, and around 13 per cent plan to give up entirely.
Benefits of having even a month off drinking include weight loss, better mood and sleep, reduced anxiety, improved blood sugar and liver function, and lower cholesterol.
So yes, there are certainly reasons for doing Dry January.
But having seen a loved one suffer and die from addiction, it’s beyond infuriating to endure a month of largely non-problematic drinkers complaining about how hard and boring it is to stop, or boast about how virtuous they are in not joining you in a single glass of good red wine.
To me, Dry January turns sobriety into a fad – and the problem is that fads don’t last for those who need it most. It’s a tool in the addict’s box of denial.
True change isn’t going to be achieved by a month of performative non-drinking.
If my brother had been able to acknowledge his demons and had quietly accepted the help he was so frequently offered, rather than white knuckling through a few weeks to loud fanfare, he might still be here.
What’s more, watching an alcoholic navigate a few weeks off booze is like being forced to watch a hungry animal pace an empty cage. He was bored, he twitched, he went to bed early, he did insane amounts of exercise and I am 99.9 per cent sure he cheated.
When I cleared his house after he died I found empty bottles everywhere; in the woodshed, the airing cupboard behind the beach towels and under his bed.
Those who moan about stopping for a month have no idea about the reality of the true struggles, and how insulting their whingeing can be to those who understand addiction from the inside.
In my opinion, their noise detracts from those with genuine problems – and validates their view that a month off drinking means you can do what you want for the rest of the year.
Dr David McLaughlan, a consultant psychiatrist and addictions specialist at the Priory and co-founder of Curb Health, disagrees.
He says that, for many, Dry January is beneficial: ‘We need to stop being so polarised about definitions. It’s not all or nothing. That’s why a mindful approach, cutting down and doing Dry January, is a good idea.’
However, he adds: ‘It shouldn’t be used by those who have a problem to justify why nothing needs to change later on. It’s like that ad campaign about why a dog isn’t just for Christmas.’
To be fair, there is no catch-all solution, and for many a month off is a reset that curtails drinking for the rest of the year.
There’s a female colleague who I’d say had an unhealthy relationship with booze – black-out drunk at work parties – who did Dry January two years ago and has not drunk since. She is a different, happier person. (Alcohol Change UK points out that Dry January is not targeting alcohol-dependent drinkers.)
If only people could do Dry January more quietly!
After my brother died following years of ill-health and family and friends begging him to get help while paying for costly interventions, I was, like many relatives of an addict, consumed with guilt and anger.
I didn’t drink for two years because I perceived alcohol as having killed him, and therefore it was the enemy. I now recognise addiction as a disease and have nothing but sympathy for those who are suffering – and for their family and friends.
I do enjoy the odd glass of wine, and have the occasional binge, especially at Christmas, along with a lot of the population.
Do I do Dry January? Yes, as it happens. I love January, the reset of a few weeks focusing on health, doing more exercise and planning work for the year.
But do I talk about it endlessly to every friend and colleague that I come across during that time? No, I flipping well don’t.
For more information visit alcoholchange.org.uk
Hannah Woods is a pseudonym. All names have been changed
