In 1776, Samuel Johnson observes to James Boswell:
“Sir, I have no objection to a man’s drinking wine, if he can do it in moderation. I found myself apt to go to excess in it, and therefore, after having been for some time without it, on account of illness, I thought it better not to return to it. Every man is to judge for himself, according to the effects which he experiences.”
In 1910, Raymond Asquith, barrister, writes to Aubrey Herbert from the Inner Temple:
“Once a month or so I have something to do; but the rest of the time I stare with sightless eyes and unregarding brain at books which ought to be burned for dullness by the common hangman. It is the best way ever found out of rotting one’s brain. I really believe it would save time or trouble to do it by drink instead. But I have given up drink—as an experiment—for a fortnight now. The only result is that I sometimes feel faint. Never give up drink, my dear Aubrey. Never give up anything. You sink at once to the level of the animals if you do.”
In 1921, Winston Churchill writes to his wife:
“FE [Smith, Lord Birkenhead, the Lord Chancellor] has gone absolutely Pussyfoot for a year. He drinks cider and ginger pop and looks 10 years younger. Don’t make a mock of this, as he is quite sensitive about it. He looks sad.” (Smith died in 1930, aged 58, of cirrhosis of the liver.)
In 1969, Richard Burton writes in his diary:
“I have more or less stopped drinking and the shock to my system is obviously pretty profound. The effect at the studios [he is filming Anne of the Thousand Days], I mean on me, is awful. I am fundamentally so bored with my job that only drink is capable of killing the pain. The thought of doing a whole day’s work with, for instance, John Colicos [fellow actor], which is my chore tomorrow, without at least half a bottle of vodka to ease back the yawns is like deliberately inciting a nightmare. [Without drink] I have been like a mad and highly articulate bull with all kinds of people I normally have great respect for. This is par for the course when I am drinking heavily, but I’m surprised that I still do it when sober. If it is still the same in a month, I shall go back to old father booze and find out how long it will take him to kill me.
“[Two days later] Last night I fell by the wayside and became drunk. It didn’t take much to make me so. Drink is a great anodyne—I had forgotten how boring people are. I’d forgotten how afraid people are. I’d forgotten how boring I am.”
In 1982, Kingsley Amis undergoes a forced withdrawal from alcohol after breaking his leg. He claimed he experienced “nothing spectacular, just a few voices and non-existent cats.”
In 1996, Alan Clark writes in his diary: “One thing I must note—both welcome and unwelcome. I am almost an alcoholic. I ‘have’ to have my half (a generous half, often) bottle of wine, usually Burgundy red or white, in the evening. If I don’t get it by about 7pm I feel irritable and (similar to) hungry. But, when I don’t drink I feel much better waking-up in the morning (we never go to bed before 11pm now it seems). And, particularly, if I don’t drink at lunch I feel much better at tea-time and in the evenings. Today for example although we had late salami-cheese lunch by the pool and it is a Saturday, I still would not slurp. Nor do I intend to drink tonight, although I would love to drain a glass of the Marquise’s Chassagne Montrachet. It is only the second day. But not only do I feel better, but I feel more sexual. And my prostatic symptoms have completely disappeared. Strange.”
In 2000, Damien McCrystal, Telegraph City diarist, reviews his six-month abstinence:
“Weddings and similar social functions can be trying without a bit of liquid relaxation. But apart from that, it hasn’t been difficult. Life has been easier, really. Not drinking is excellent for restoring domestic harmony, which alone, it might be argued, is reason enough for occasional abstinence. There are no rows about who is driving home after dinner and one’s children become more absorbing.
“On the other hand, certain social events are undeniably dull and tiring without a drink. Certain of one’s friends, too, become deadly dull—an accusation which, I accept, they are perfectly justified in levelling at me. But it is not their drunkenness which is boring, it is them, and one can’t help realising that one only liked them for companionship in one’s cups.”
In 2006, AA Gill visits his doctor:
“The liver as drunks will endlessly tell you is the only organ to regenerate itself. In fact it only restores function not form. It isn’t born again. Once crucified it stays crucified. I got pancreatitis. The doctor who told me was nervous, he fidgeted behind his desk, shuffling my results. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but there’s no way round this, you can never, ever drink alcohol again. I know that sounds terrible, particularly for someone in your line of work’—he could have meant a food critic, or just a journalist. ‘Really, no alcohol at all, it will be fatal. I’m awfully sorry.’ I let him shuffle and twitch for a moment and then pointed out that he plainly hadn’t read my notes. I hadn’t drunk for over 20 years. ‘Oh, thank God for that. I’ve been dreading having to tell you all day. Tell a food critic he can’t drink. Jesus.’ Overcome by his relief and purloining it as my own, I forgot to ask him what pancreatitis actually was.”
“Sir, I have no objection to a man’s drinking wine, if he can do it in moderation. I found myself apt to go to excess in it, and therefore, after having been for some time without it, on account of illness, I thought it better not to return to it. Every man is to judge for himself, according to the effects which he experiences.”
In 1910, Raymond Asquith, barrister, writes to Aubrey Herbert from the Inner Temple:
“Once a month or so I have something to do; but the rest of the time I stare with sightless eyes and unregarding brain at books which ought to be burned for dullness by the common hangman. It is the best way ever found out of rotting one’s brain. I really believe it would save time or trouble to do it by drink instead. But I have given up drink—as an experiment—for a fortnight now. The only result is that I sometimes feel faint. Never give up drink, my dear Aubrey. Never give up anything. You sink at once to the level of the animals if you do.”
In 1921, Winston Churchill writes to his wife:
“FE [Smith, Lord Birkenhead, the Lord Chancellor] has gone absolutely Pussyfoot for a year. He drinks cider and ginger pop and looks 10 years younger. Don’t make a mock of this, as he is quite sensitive about it. He looks sad.” (Smith died in 1930, aged 58, of cirrhosis of the liver.)
In 1969, Richard Burton writes in his diary:
“I have more or less stopped drinking and the shock to my system is obviously pretty profound. The effect at the studios [he is filming Anne of the Thousand Days], I mean on me, is awful. I am fundamentally so bored with my job that only drink is capable of killing the pain. The thought of doing a whole day’s work with, for instance, John Colicos [fellow actor], which is my chore tomorrow, without at least half a bottle of vodka to ease back the yawns is like deliberately inciting a nightmare. [Without drink] I have been like a mad and highly articulate bull with all kinds of people I normally have great respect for. This is par for the course when I am drinking heavily, but I’m surprised that I still do it when sober. If it is still the same in a month, I shall go back to old father booze and find out how long it will take him to kill me.
“[Two days later] Last night I fell by the wayside and became drunk. It didn’t take much to make me so. Drink is a great anodyne—I had forgotten how boring people are. I’d forgotten how afraid people are. I’d forgotten how boring I am.”
In 1982, Kingsley Amis undergoes a forced withdrawal from alcohol after breaking his leg. He claimed he experienced “nothing spectacular, just a few voices and non-existent cats.”
In 1996, Alan Clark writes in his diary: “One thing I must note—both welcome and unwelcome. I am almost an alcoholic. I ‘have’ to have my half (a generous half, often) bottle of wine, usually Burgundy red or white, in the evening. If I don’t get it by about 7pm I feel irritable and (similar to) hungry. But, when I don’t drink I feel much better waking-up in the morning (we never go to bed before 11pm now it seems). And, particularly, if I don’t drink at lunch I feel much better at tea-time and in the evenings. Today for example although we had late salami-cheese lunch by the pool and it is a Saturday, I still would not slurp. Nor do I intend to drink tonight, although I would love to drain a glass of the Marquise’s Chassagne Montrachet. It is only the second day. But not only do I feel better, but I feel more sexual. And my prostatic symptoms have completely disappeared. Strange.”
In 2000, Damien McCrystal, Telegraph City diarist, reviews his six-month abstinence:
“Weddings and similar social functions can be trying without a bit of liquid relaxation. But apart from that, it hasn’t been difficult. Life has been easier, really. Not drinking is excellent for restoring domestic harmony, which alone, it might be argued, is reason enough for occasional abstinence. There are no rows about who is driving home after dinner and one’s children become more absorbing.
“On the other hand, certain social events are undeniably dull and tiring without a drink. Certain of one’s friends, too, become deadly dull—an accusation which, I accept, they are perfectly justified in levelling at me. But it is not their drunkenness which is boring, it is them, and one can’t help realising that one only liked them for companionship in one’s cups.”
In 2006, AA Gill visits his doctor:
“The liver as drunks will endlessly tell you is the only organ to regenerate itself. In fact it only restores function not form. It isn’t born again. Once crucified it stays crucified. I got pancreatitis. The doctor who told me was nervous, he fidgeted behind his desk, shuffling my results. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but there’s no way round this, you can never, ever drink alcohol again. I know that sounds terrible, particularly for someone in your line of work’—he could have meant a food critic, or just a journalist. ‘Really, no alcohol at all, it will be fatal. I’m awfully sorry.’ I let him shuffle and twitch for a moment and then pointed out that he plainly hadn’t read my notes. I hadn’t drunk for over 20 years. ‘Oh, thank God for that. I’ve been dreading having to tell you all day. Tell a food critic he can’t drink. Jesus.’ Overcome by his relief and purloining it as my own, I forgot to ask him what pancreatitis actually was.”
