Oh, probably. If you’re reading this then there’s clearly an echo of…something suspicious. Let me ask you some questions: do you ever lie to your friends about how much you had to drink or how often you drink? I do. Fairly normal, no? Do you ever lie to your shrink about similar. I do. Problematic.
The trouble is, how to establish the rules when the government directives are so municipal and so unrelated to real life and galvanise the inner rebel in even the most bovine of us? Units. Who counts units?
Let’s try to have a look at this: more than two drinks when on your own is a bit of a flare in the night sky if it happens more than once in a very blue moon. And memory loss, I’m afraid, means it’s time to calm the fuck down because it’s a sign of the brain doing something sinister. Can’t remember what. Know it’s not good.
Having sex with people without meaning to is bad as a teenager and really not feel-good as, say, a single midult mother. Or a married midult mother. Or a single midult looking for someone. Or a single midult not even that bothered about finding someone. Unintentional sex that you can’t remember is depressing.
The scariest ones are the machines who don’t get hangovers. They can hurtle towards 50 lunchtime drinking and Thursday-Sunday snorting, all the while holding down big jobs and marriages. They are rare and die young.
So here’s the thing. As a borderline alcoholic I do deals with myself. I plan big nights so that they in no way affect my day to day life. Friday night only. With trusted friends. Kids away for the weekend. Fully functional stuff. Just don’t tell my shrink. She’ll say something annoying like ‘Why do you feel the need to not be present?’ Frankly it’s none of her business.