DryathletesA few years ago, I arranged to see an old mate in mid-January. It’s already the darkest, coldest, most miserable month, with only the cosy flicker of Burns’ Night in the last week to keep you going. So the idea of steak and a bottle of a decent red halfway through seemed perfect. “Oh, I’m not drinking,” he said. “I’m doing Dry January.” At the time, this wasn’t really a thing, and he was the last person you’d expect to do it – although thinking about it, that may have been why. So we went out, ate steak, and I drank three large glasses of excellent Malbec while he drank mocktails and looked sad. I want to say I vowed right then never to take part in Dry January or “Dryathlon” (although that sounds like a synthetic fabric), but it wouldn’t be true. That vow came a year later, when I went to a late-January birthday party. Two thirds of the guests were clutching glasses of fizzy water and looking resentful, and the party went with all the swing of a trip to the morgue.
This year I will be doing Ginuary. I’m sure the concept is self-explanatory.