Jake Shoolheifer: About a Boy

The Great British Dry January Night Out

So, you’ve finished dry Jan. How was it? No don’t actually tell me how it went, I was being rhetorical and don’t care. Sure, I reserve a grudging respect for anyone who voluntarily goes without alcohol for a month, often for a good cause, but let’s face it, you people are dangerous.
As the rest of us bravely punish our minds and bodies with pints, shots and bombs like Christmas never happened, there you are, curled up on your couch watching War and Peace with a ginseng tea, in serious danger of becoming civilised.
In the unlikely event that my petulant rant has made you feel guilty, worry not, for I have concocted something pretty damn special for you.
If you’re really committed to seeing this wretched month out fully dry each year, but miss the bad decision-strewn, vomit-soaked, empty-walleted splendour of a Friday night, then read the following very carefully.
January 2017 will fly by if you religiously observe…

The Great British Dry Jan Night Out itinerary
8pm: I’ve rather jumped ahead here, but I should say that whatever you’ve done since midday to this point, it should have comprised precisely NO consumption of either food or water. This is essential. Also, bring a sachet of mustard. I’ll explain later.
9pm: Arrive at your local franchise of that pub chain your mates claim to hate but always seem to be in. Buy them all two doubles. That should be 60 quid gone already depending on your location/popularity.
10pm: After ten hours of no food or water, you should actually be feeling fairly similar to your mates. Dehydrated, delirious and trying with all your might to pretend you’d rather be there than your sofa.
11pm: If you’re one of those people that has a great brain-to-mouth filter, now’s the time to switch it off. If you think that bloke’s “love” and “hate” knuckle tattoos are decidedly unbecoming, tell him. If you think that woman’s ‘All The Single Ladies’ routine will probably ensure she remains so, tell her. This should, at the very least, have your mates dragging you away, casting back apologetic glances.
12am: This is the glorious, heroic conclusion. No traditional night out is complete without a panicked dash to the cubicle. Order a pint of water with a teaspoon of salt. Mix in your trusty sachet of mustard, down it and run, ideally knocking over a few punters in the process. For maximum authenticity, don’t quite get to the cubicle in time. Settle for the bathroom floor. This should ensure you waste at least 30 quid trying to bribe the justifiably furious toilet attendant not to chuck you out. It won’t work. At this point, feel free to have a little cry.
How you get home is up to you, but if you feel safe to do so, I recommend stumbling through the most property-dense streets possible, caterwauling all your favourite power ballads at the top of your voice. Make me proud!