Chances are, you spent the most recent bank holiday weekend yomping up and down a field, pressing flowers, kayaking and murmuring, generally giving it the full wholesome nine yards. But other chances are you did a bit of the above, as much lying down as you could sneak in, a massive dollop of internet shopping (or, at least, basket filling and then basket abandoning) and some drinking. Pink wine, red wine, cider with ice, vodka and tonics, Aperol, Chablis, Tequila, whatever. How much is too much? Who’s to say? Who’s judging? Who’s watching?
All of which begs the question: are you an alkohole? There is a theory that it matters less how much you drink and how spannered you get, than how you change when you are drinking. And in what way you change. In short, if you are an alkohole, then we might have a problem.
We all have those friends who become terrorists when tipsy, assassins when smashed. Messy, and not in that old school falling over and throwing up way. Emotionally messy. Cruel. Inappropriate. Dictatorial. All-knowing in a nonsensical and yet aggressive kind of a way. Alkohole-ism. That shift in temperament that signposts the fact that their heart and soul have left the building to be replaced by their inner alkohole: a kind of dickhead spirit animal.
Put it this way, this kind of drinking has cuntsequence. It has fallouts. ‘Oh, she was pissed’ is an excuse that can expire through overuse. A bit like, ‘Oh it’s just her manner’. At what point does your drunk self sabotage your sober self? In short, when does alkohole become, simply, arsehole.