High Sobriety (6 page)

But there's a bigger epiphany to come. It's so unexpected that I'm completely blindsided. This night, I bust my long-held belief that alcohol is an essential element in any romantic connection. He's a friend of a friend; he's hot. There's chatting. There's dancing. There's a kiss. And then several more kisses. I can't remember the last time this happened without the assistance of alcohol. Admittedly, I'm more self-conscious than normal, my eyes flickering open to see if anyone's watching, but I guess that's natural when you're pashing the face off a virtual stranger in a public place, aided only by soda water. Without the fuzziness of beer, I'm much more aware of where I am and what I'm doing. I'm in the moment — and the moment is pretty good. My words are honest and considered, not delivered in a nervous jumble of expectation and awkwardness. I don't know if that's what sparks the connection, but I know that I feel more confident and attractive than I would if I was slurring my words and slamming down tequila shots.

Contrary to my preconceptions, sobriety is not a man-repellent. He finds it fascinating, asking lots of questions and commending my fortitude. Halfway through the evening, he even switches to water in solidarity. Later, he walks me to my car, asks for my number, and kisses me good night. If only all of my evenings at Cherry Bar had ended in such a civilised fashion. As I drive home at 2.30 a.m. — a peculiarity in itself for someone used to being poured into a taxi at the end of a night — ears ringing, brain still buzzing, I smile when I realise that tomorrow there will be no hangover.

February

MY CHERRY BAR
awakening is a turning point. I start to question every belief that I hold about the role of alcohol in my life. I've always thought that drinking gives me confidence; that without it I'd be a shrunken version of my alcohol-inspired alter ego. But if I can carve up the dance floor, party till the wee small hours, and pick up a cute guy without touching a drop, what else can I do sober?

Suddenly I see it: the emperor is wearing no clothes. For so long, I thought that alcohol gave me my edge, and the courage to speak my mind: a flick of the tap, and I'm served up a cold glass of liquid confidence
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But often, this unfiltered honesty gets me into trouble. Such as the now-legendary post-work drinks that saw me give my editor an hour-long masterclass on how she should run the paper. Or the time I confessed to my mum, over a bottle of wine, that the mysterious dent in the wall she'd been puzzling over for years was caused by an unexpectedly airborne television, thrown during a teenage party that briefly turned my parents' living room into a mosh pit. After one too many beverages, I can be reckless with the truth, hurling it at people indiscriminately. But I'm coming to realise that at the heart of many of these conversations is an unmet need — whether it's the need to express professional frustration, atone for youthful misdeeds or, most commonly, to tell the people I care about the most the things I dare to say the least. (‘I love you, man. No, seriously, I, like, really, really love you.') Beer as truth serum. Vodka as emotional lubricant. Wine as aphrodisiac.

It's a beautiful thing when an introverted friend not comfortable with public displays of emotion tells you, after a few cocktails, that you make her world a brighter place. A personal story shared in confidence over a glass of wine can be the moment a casual acquaintance becomes a friend. It might not happen if you're clinking glasses of water. But why is that? Besides the physiological effect that alcohol has on inhibitions, it gives us a convenient safety net, I think, should the recipient of our truth-telling not react in the way we might like. If we make a move on someone and they don't reciprocate, we can always say, ‘It was the booze talking — sorry about that.' If the new friend finds the outpouring of emotion lame, we can laugh it off later, notching it up to drunken nonsense. It's a get-out-of-jail card, and I have used it so many times.

If I have a difficult subject to broach with someone close to me, I'll often consciously plan to bring it up it three or four drinks into the night. I figure that's how much alcohol it takes to give me the balls to say it, and to hopefully loosen up the recipient of my pent-up candour. In relationships, I've used booze to help raise problems that are troubling me — and you don't have to be Dr Phil to work out that's not a recipe for lasting love. One fledgling romance ended after less than a month when, at the end of a night filled with fine dining and flirting, I decided to bare my soul. My plan was to explain delicately that I'd just come out of a long-term relationship, and was scared of being hurt. But my words became mangled in alcohol's spin cycle, and instead I demanded to know where the whole thing was going, how serious he was, and what his intentions were for our future. As he fled into the night, I was left with a wilting mojito, and cartoon plumes of smoke where my beau once sat.

But I've not been rendered socially incompetent by removing beer from my life. Perhaps booze is just a placebo. We think it gives us confidence, so we feel confident. In fact, there's research to back up that theory. Several studies over the last 40 years have shown that, while alcohol undoubtedly has a chemical effect on motor performance, memory, coordination, and reaction time, social behaviour and mood changes may be influenced less by how many tequilas we knock back, and more by the expectations that we bring with us to the pub. In experiments, psychologists have shown that groups of people who were told they were drinking vodka started to display certain behaviours — for example, becoming more confident and flirtatious — even when they were only drinking tonic water. The results of these ‘alcohol expectancies' experiments suggest that, just as I use booze as a truth serum, to spill my secrets and mouth off about my frustrations, people routinely use drinking as a way to behave in ways they otherwise wouldn't because they believe they're drunk.

If we Australians think that drinking makes us more attractive and dynamic, it's no wonder that so many of us can't get through the weekend without a glass of wine. These perceptions are formed from an early age. The way in which alcohol has been marketed — as if that cold beer is going to transform you from a nerdy, no-mates loser into a bronzed and shimmering demigod, fighting admirers off with a bull whip — creates the impression that booze is our social elixir. Without it, we'd be desperate, dateless, and alone. Many young Australians struggling with their identity and with trying to form relationships have learned that drinking is their ticket to belonging. In a 2008 study from the University of Wollongong, 90 per cent of 15- to 24-year-olds who were shown a series of alcohol adverts said that they thought the products shown would help them to have a good time. More than two-thirds of the 300 high-school and university students interviewed felt that drinking would make them more confident, sociable, and outgoing, while 70 per cent said that it would help them to fit in. Half thought that the drinks in the ads — which included Tiger beer, and the liqueurs Frangelico and Kahlua — would help them to succeed with the opposite sex; almost 60 per cent thought it would make them less nervous.

These perceptions have not arisen by accident. As part of a 2009 inquiry into the conduct of the alcohol industry in the United Kingdom, the House of Commons Health Select Committee obtained internal marketing documents from a number of alcohol companies and their advertising agencies. One of the key findings from the documents was the importance that alcohol producers place on selling the notion that their brands can help to foster a sense of togetherness. Internal planning documents for Carling, a leading beer brand, described it as a ‘social glue', stating that ‘owning' sociability was the way to dominate the booze market. This was borne out by the commercial for its ‘Belong' campaign, which featured a flock of starlings re-creating the word ‘belong' in the style of the Carling logo. The internal documents stated that the campaign ‘celebrates, initiates and promotes the togetherness of the pack, their passions and their pint because Carling understands that things are better together'. Documents obtained for the same inquiry found that the brand promise for Lambrini, a sparkling pear-based drink that comes in a range of flavours, was that ‘it's the perfect social lubricant', and would ‘make you and the girls forget your dull working week and transform you into the glamour pusses you know you should be'.

The industry in Australia is no different. You only have to look at the website of one of the country's largest beer companies to see that alcohol is being spruiked as a social necessity, and as the panacea for all our woes. An advert by Carlton & United Breweries, which makes Carlton Draught, Victoria Bitter, and Crown Lager, shows a young, attractive man walking into a bar full of similarly good-looking drinkers, and claims that ‘communities are strengthened through the unique, everyday bonds our beer creates'. In video footage that shows the man laughing and bonding with friends and family, the voiceover tells us:

We're there for the little moments where people feel comfortable with who they are and who they're with and we understand that what we make has always and will always be right there in the thick of things as people create friendships, face adversity and enjoy prosperity — from the casual beer at the local to grandest of celebrations, to the moment where you just want to drop back home to remember where you came from and where you belong. In fact, we believe, in a society becoming too busy to pause for simple pleasures, if a whole lot more people raised a beer in friendship, the world would be a better place.

Yep, that's right, we can heal the world with beer. Perhaps all that's required to achieve peace in the Middle East is a few dozen slabs of VB and a tray of party pies. After all, alcohol can help us to make friends, cope with tough times, celebrate victories, and generally improve our otherwise sad and dull lives.

Until very recently, I'd have said the same thing. Now, I'm starting to think that there might be a more constructive way to express my emotions or to make new connections. It won't always be easy, but I want to be honest with the people in my life, without having to be drunk to do it. When I tell my friends and family I love them, I don't want there to be any doubt about why I'm saying it. If I'm frustrated at work, I'd like to find a way to communicate my grievances in a manner that might actually get me the desired result. If I'm attracted to someone, I don't want to wait until I've had a skinful to tell them. It might be scary laying myself bare completely sober, but it's got to be more authentic than dipping the truth in a bottle of wine and calling it real.

HABIT IS A
peculiar beast: she's not easily tamed, and she's not afraid of a dare. My body might be learning that I don't need alcohol to feel good, but my brain is following a more familiar script. As i attempt to order a lime and soda in a bar with friends one night, i'm shocked to hear the words ‘vodka, lime, and soda' come out of my mouth, nearly sabotaging my booze ban just weeks after it's started. When I correct myself, the barman asks why I'm not drinking.

‘A social experiment,' I reply.

He looks at me quizzically. ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?'

Five minutes later, he approaches our table, sets down a shot glass, and says, ‘We've just got this new vodka in. It's beautiful, really smooth, goes perfectly with lime and soda. I'll just leave that with you.' Smirking, he walks off, leaving us staring in bemusement at this strange offering.

Twenty years on the piss and all I had to do to get free alcohol was renounce drinking?

He returns ten minutes later, taking the untouched vodka shot with him. ‘Well done — you've passed the challenge.'

I didn't realise I was being tested.

It's the first of many occasions where my decision not to drink is taken as an open invitation to try to knock me off the wagon. I'd like to think that my personality hasn't been muted because I'm not drinking booze, and that I can still crack a joke and hold up my end of a conversation, but some people are intent on proving me wrong. ‘When can you drink again?' they ask with panicked voices, as if my life is on hold and any endearing character traits have abandoned me.

Sometimes I wonder if people would be more relaxed if I were holding a beer bottle. Even if it were filled with water, I suspect that the illusion would be enough to ease their tension. I'm starting to realise that even if I don't need alcohol to enjoy social situations, sometimes it makes other people more comfortable if I act as if I do.

Melbourne radio host Derryn Hinch — a former heavy drinker who gave up alcohol for health reasons — says that non-drinkers in Australia are marginalised and ridiculed. ‘I've had friends who've gone to pubs, and I'll say, “I'll have a lemon squash.” They'll say, “Why? You're a girl!” A female says, “I'm not drinking.” “Are you pregnant? Is there something we should know about?” The non-drinkers are [treated like] criminals,' he told a conference on alcohol-related brain injuries in 2008. In my second month of sobriety, the truth of that is bearing down on me with great force. Like non-smokers at an office party in the 1970s, teetotallers are the new social pariahs. Being sober in a nation where 80 per cent of people over the age of 14 are drinkers feels like being part of an underground counterculture you're not sure you asked to join. That historical fear of the wowser is so engrained that I can only imagine how tedious it must be for people who never drink to have to face this level of pressure and mistrust on a regular basis. It's tiring to constantly explain why you're not drinking, in a culture that does little to embrace a booze-free lifestyle and much to encourage the opposite.