Opinion: Dry July has become a ritual of self-righteousness

Dry July has become more about the newly converted proudly pontificating their virtuousness than it is about raising money for a worthy cause.

Dry July has become more about people spruiking their own virtuousness than it is about raising money for charity.

School holidays always provide a good excuse. “Pffttt, we are all in bloody lockdown,” was the 2020 justification for belting back the booze.

But now ’tis the season of Dry July with photos and posts of clear eyes, full hearts, glowing skin and glasses of alkaline water replacing vases of vino.

This season brings with it no seasoning at all. The newly converted proudly pontificate on the many virtues of ditching the booze in the name of charity.

A faint waft of preachy, coupled with a ritual of righteousness starts week one, but isn’t this always the case with abstainers of any description? Sigh.

The saddlebags and muffin top have started to weigh you down, literally and figuratively. The hand doesn’t grab for certain items in the wardrobe.

Even the pandemic staple, the oversized hoodie, doesn’t feel so oversized. You know it’s time to get off your great acre and start moving.

It’s not just whether to ditch that blessed middle-class hour of one or two at six o’clock, it’s the thought of having a month minus the grog.

You know the pros. You will feel better and healthy. Shed the kegs. Bounce out of bed. You’ve got there before. It wasn’t THAT hard. It was all, just a little, well, boring.

Therein lies the problem with our oi oi oi drinking culture. Maybe, just maybe, boring, or abstaining, is not such a bad thing.

In our oi, oi, oi, Aussie culture not drinking is considered boring.

“Que aburrido” we used to taunt if someone deemed themselves “designated driver,” back before Uber was a thing and Y2K was not just a fashion trend, but something else to be scared of.

Spanish for “how boring” was picked up by yours truly after downing several throwbacks in a Tijuana bar.

For the uninitiated, a throwback involves licking salt, downing tequila from the bottle and throwing your head back and shaking from side to side, with vigour, as a seedy bar tender straight from Dawn of the Dead covers your mouth with a dirty tea towel. Do not try this at home.

Three throwbacks in and I was a dinky-di legend, but calling stumps at the fourth brought chants of “que abburido” across the Cheech and Chong style bar. The Mexican fella, one Jose Alvarez, was having none of such so-called sobriety and so throwbacks kept on truckin’.

Crossing the border back into the US that night proved a problem after having misplaced the traveller’s one essential item, my passport. Throwbacks can do that to a gal. A memorable 12-hour stint in a Tijuanan holding cell followed.

Two lessons were learnt from the throwback-Tijuana-jail-session. A full deck of ciggies, an ample cleavage and an eye-batting smile can get one out of the most precarious of circumstances (eeek, white privilege). And learning when to say no, even if it means being a tad boring, or “aburrido”, isn’t perhaps the worst thing.

But it’s hard when twenty-something binge drinking is as ingrained as a well-fermented single malt.

The pandemic has increased rates of drinking.

Peer pressure then turned into having a knock off, which turned into wine o’clock at the witching hour, said one mother of four, as the tinkle of ice cubes could be heard down the phone.

She said it’s acceptable to start when preparing for the evening meal. Touche, said another, who took this to extremes.

She was baking elaborate 50-step recipes for the neighbourhood in last year’s lockdown just so she could crack one open.

She realised there was a problem when residents were pleading for the trays of enchiladas to stop being left at their doors.

A recent Harvard Medical School study found the pandemic has increased rates of heavy drinking in women, defined as four or more drinks in one session.

All this weighed one down as much as the extra corona kilos.

But there’s something to be said for Dry July. Since 2008, the Dry July Foundation has raised more than $60m for people affected by cancer. In the name of fundraising, approximately 200,000 Australians have opted to go sober in July throughout the campaign’s history.

Plus, it’s a good circuit breaker.

Then come the excuses:

We’ve been through so much. It’s school holidays. Feb Fest is not far off.

It’s enough to have you reaching for a …

Alice Coster is a Herald Sun columnist

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