One night in May, I drank until I became insensible (six bourbon-based cocktails in half an hour) after which I fell on my face and took out four of my front teeth – three at the top and one at the bottom. My reaction was typical – “This has got to stop!” – invariably followed with “but not totally…”
Though I’m not suffering the existential crisis more sensitive souls might on having their appearance so altered, I would be disappointed in myself if I hadn’t learned a lesson from the experience and modified my behaviour somewhat.
Partly due to the wonders of Mounjaro – which not only assists weight loss but is thought to make bad habits less attractive – I haven’t blacked out since that eventful night, whereas I used to do it frequently. But I don’t see any point in fixing my teeth until I’ve fixed my drinking, and this is like having a big Post-It note in the middle of my face that I am confronted with at the tipping point when a good night out turns into a crime scene: I’ll look into the mirror in the bathroom of a bar and say to myself, “You’ve had enough!”
One thing that cutting back on spirits has gifted me is more time to spend with wine. I sneered at wine for much of my life; as a working class schoolgirl of 15 I went straight onto spirits – vodka and Rose’s lime juice – and as a punk of 17 I drank snakebite. In my 20s as a girl about town I drank vodkatinis and champagne; in my dotage, a G&T has been my predictable pre-prandial tipple.
I’ve always associated wine with miserable single women wishing they were married (Bridget Jones and her endless Chardonnay) or miserable married women wishing they were single (all those dismal WINE O’CLOCK gewgaws). Then there’s the pretentiousness of professional wine-tasting – if it really does taste of “old furniture and forest floor”, I think I’d prefer to drink perfume. But I love it now, especially the red – French, Italian, Spanish and that cheeky New World stuff.
Another reason I’m putting off getting my teeth done is that I may become vain of them, and that would compromise my relationship with red wine.
Now I have one more reason to adore it: Gen Z are against it, according to the Guardian, with around 45 per cent of them not drinking alcohol. Even those that do apparently find wine the least tempting of all, favouring craft beers and organic cocktails.
With consumption the lowest for nearly three decades, whole vineyards are being destroyed by their owners from France to California; as one who has felt bereft when I’ve had to tip away that last flat inch of Babycham the morning after, I can only imagine the kind of existential sorrow this causes.
The World Health Organization announcing this year that “No level of alcohol consumption is safe” hasn’t helped the situation, but the absolute preciousness of Gen Z exacerbates it. Wine is apparently a minefield for them, with fears that they may be judged on anything from the way they hold their glass to the correct pronunciation of Merlot – but I can’t help thinking that it’s the very conviviality of sharing a bottle that freaks them out.
My idea of heaven is a table in the window of a cosy restaurant with my mates – outside if it’s sunny – with the gossip flowing and the third bottle on the way. I can see how this might be a vision of hell to a generation scared of being censored, censured and cancelled for something “problematic” they might say when the liquor has loosened their lips a little.
So Gen Z, I’m quite happy if you stick to the cannabis and the canned mocktails – all the more wine for me. Because I don’t want to stop having a good time, I just want to remember it in the morning – and that’s a guarantee that six bourbon-based cocktails in half an hour just can’t fulfil.
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