When I moved to London in 2022, I left so many bad habits back in New York. Hundred-dollar Pilates classes and $18 collagen coffees. A tendency to lose it when my favourite SoulCycle classes were sold out. Frequenting a spa that didn’t even serve salt, let alone sancerre.
But in New York, that wasn’t really a problem because New Yorkers don’t drink. At least not the overachievers who adopt wellness as a religion. These days, it’s more socially acceptable to spend the holidays with Woody Allen than get plastered at a dinner party. For this gang, fun means NAD+ infusions, salmon sperm injections and microdosed ketamine.
As a hard-charging magazine editor and card-carrying member of Generation Goop, I too was an early adopter of Botivo, the non-alcoholic aperitif. Even in my twenties, when I decompressed with vodka sodas at clubs owned by Chloë Sevigny’s brother, I’d never fail to “sweat it out” the next day at Barry’s Bootcamp.
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Back then we knew drinking was naughty, but assumed the worst that could happen was a lingering hangover or unplanned pregnancy. Now it’s accepted that alcohol is associated with at least seven types of cancer, including breast and bowel, as if we could ever forget. On January 4, 2023, the World Health Organisation gave everyone a reason to hate themselves — and the WHO — by declaring that no amount of it is safe.
It wasn’t like I quit the sauce entirely. I tried really hard to drink my way through the pandemic like a normal person. But because I was ordering my pét-nat from a healthy-sounding West Hollywood wine shop that optimistically described its varietals as “funky”, it was pretty easy to stick to the seltzer. (“You paid what for this?” my husband would say, pouring another bottle of sediment-filled sludge down the drain.) And then, three years ago, petrified by an episode of the Huberman Lab podcast about the dangers of alcohol — even just one drink — I limited myself to a few sips a month.
When we installed ourselves in Kensington, our friends back home were jealous. Not only because we’d have easy access to the 5 Hertford Street private members’ club and our children could potentially adopt English accents but, as one enthused, “You could go to Buchinger for the weekend.” (And yes, I did go to the fasting clinic, but never again. I cannot live on broth alone.)
In London, all that matters is being fun
Back home in GB, there was always an excellent reason to get smashed — a two-year-old’s birthday, a thrilling rugby match, a boring cricket match, it’s Wednesday, et cetera. It was a revelation to discover that acting like a hot mess could be a type of social currency. I witnessed a captain of industry fall out of an elevator and toddle off, giggling, to close a deal. At my child’s sports day, one parent OD’ed on Pimm’s and forgot where they’d parked the car, which everyone declared just “hilarious”.
In Manhattan, women are judged for their household income, employer, address, follower count, children’s schools (if applicable) and dress size. In London, as far as I can tell, all that matters is if you’re good for a chat and great fun at a party. If you can handle two martinis while opining on Baroness Bra and Rama Duwaji, the first lady of New York, you can run this town. And, frankly, you deserve to.
“In Manhattan, women are judged for their income, address and follower count”
TOM JACKSON FOR THE TIMES MAGAZINE
I tried to fit in, I really did, but at dozens of well-lubricated get-togethers, I was that woman: the No-Groni lady. The one who once washed down an Arsenal match with a pot of camomile, whose fridge was always teeming with overpriced mocktail mixers. (Can we just accept we’re spending £30 on sugar water?)
I made some people uncomfortable. There’s no quicker way to kill a conversation than declaring, “I don’t really drink.” I explained it was for health reasons, but nobody bought it. I soon realised that in GB, abstinence is code for, “I’m in recovery.” Sometimes, I’d carry around a glass of wine just for show.
Still, I was smug about it. By following the advice of bodybuilding Instagram doctors and overspending on supplements with unpronounceable names, I halfway believed I could inoculate myself against disease and death. Wouldn’t that be nice.
Everyone else was mainlining caipirinhas
Even when I tried to give myself a night off from not getting cancer, I wasn’t in fighting shape for it. I learnt this the hard way at the school’s quiz night. I swilled so much boxed wine trying to fit in with the other mums that I answered every question wrong, including the capital of the American state in which I was born. I ended up with a bladder infection and a stern reminder to use the loo at regular intervals. (Anyone who moans about the NHS should be sentenced to an afternoon at an urgent-care centre in New York.)
I occasionally showed my face in the party tent but, although I was stone-cold sober, I was only partially present. In the summer, I was the designated driver to a fancy-dress party in Hampshire where the hostess was dressed like a banana. Everyone else was mainlining caipirinhas in the conga line, but I stuck to the sidelines, suffering through a high-level conversation about politics with someone’s grandfather. My husband declared it “the party of the century” and, woo-hoo, I saved 300 quid on an Uber fare.
“Being dry was very low on fun. I slept with the intensity and purpose of a cocker spaniel on its deathbed”
TOM JACKSON FOR THE TIMES MAGAZINE. HAIR AND MAKE-UP: LUCIE PEMBERTON USING KOSAS AND BUMBLE AND BUMBLE
I was surprised by how Dry January is such a thing. But after witnessing the typical alcohol consumption during the Christmas season, which apparently starts in October and often involves “a little glass of fizz” for breakfast, I get it. Half the country must be on the cusp of liver failure by New Year’s Eve.
But an alcohol-free month is the last thing I need. I’m already living in the driest patch of west London. I’ve spent way too much time in the bowels of David Lloyd, dead-lifting my way to what I hoped was a happier, healthier future. Sure, I developed visible biceps and a rear that looked non-embarrassing in jeans. I enjoyed pert and hydrated skin (with a partial assist by Botox).
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But otherwise this period was very low on fun. There is only so much joy one can wring from a packet of low-sugar digestives and a new season of Slow Horses. At least my Oura ring loved me, awarding me no shortage of “crowns” for sleeping with the intensity and purpose of a cocker spaniel on its deathbed.
But I can’t say the same for my husband. When on New Year’s Eve I told him that my 2026 resolution was to drink more, he nearly teared up. “You mean right now?” he asked, scanning the pantry for a dusty bottle of cabernet. (I sent him out for champagne.)
‘Healthy choices’ aren’t always black and white
Over a few glasses — OK, the entire glorious bottle of Piper-Heidsieck — we reminisced about how nice it was before everything in our lives started to seem so serious. It’s not like things are perfect in GB, but you people didn’t get the memo that the good times are decidedly in the rear-view mirror. Drinking’s popularity is on the wane here too, but it’s much less pronounced. According to a report from the research company ISWR, the average Brit consumed 10.2 alcoholic drinks a week last year. (In America, it’s more like three or four.)
But those who are meeting down the pub are doing something right. It turns out that so-called “healthy choices” are not always so black and white. A growing body of research suggests that social connectivity is one of the biggest predictors of longevity. A study of more than 28,000 older adults published in 2023 in the Journal of Epidemiology and Community Health found that those who socialised lived the longest.
Whether it’s a walk on Clapham Common or dinner at the Devonshire, quality time with others triggers the release of oxytocin. This can dampen the effects of cortisol, a primary indicator of stress, and lower blood pressure and heart rate.
No one disputes that binge drinking is a terrible idea for all sorts of reasons, but the science on moderate alcohol consumption is a bit more nuanced.
“There’s plenty of solid observational data showing a link between moderate drinking and a lower risk for heart disease and a tendency to live longer compared with people who don’t drink,” says Eric Rimm, professor of epidemiology and nutrition at the Harvard TH Chan School of Public Health. “Whether it’s related to a direct alcohol health benefit, other lifestyle factors or some combination is still being explored.”
New Year’s Eve was one of the best in years
At the very least, having a glass or two will probably benefit my marriage — and my reputation. When winter turns to spring, I intend to celebrate by sweeping out my tiny garden and inviting over my neighbours for Comté and chablis. And when I walk my dog past Drop, our local wine bar, I’m going to pop in and enjoy whatever the proprietor is pouring.
This New Year’s Eve was one of the best in years, even though it involved nothing more than a family dinner and a delicious cava my father-in-law squirrelled back from Venice. On New Year’s Day, I survived a four-hour-long American football match aided by a few IPAs, and since I wasn’t so intent on following every tackle, the experience was a total pleasure. And I still landed a sleep score of 91.
According to the Resolution Foundation, one in three young adults now reports symptoms of a mental health disorder like depression. I’m not suggesting that the boozer is a panacea, and I have no doubt that an alcohol-free life has nothing missing. (For many who struggle with substance abuse, it’s the only way forward, and should be celebrated.) But this trend towards total abstinence is part of a larger move towards opting out — staying home, over-connecting online and living a virtual life that rivals the real one.
No, thanks. Things are sober enough. On any given day, America will invade Venezuela, Rachel Reeves will float a new tax and Prince Harry will sit for another interview. If a pint will make this all easier to stomach, well, you’re among friends.
No wonder my family and I have decided to stick around. As we do works on our new home, I asked our builder if we could squeeze in a sauna. She started laughing. “Talk to me after you’ve figured out a place for the wine fridge,” she said. “Now that’s something you really can’t live without.” She’s not wrong. David Lloyd will always be there in the morning.
