Drink!
According to W. C. Fields: "Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder". I am constantly reminded of this immutable truth every time I pass the sign on The Old Ale House bearing the quotation in gold letters. It makes me shudder uncomfortably at the thought of some of my recent conquests, usually falling victim to one of my characteristic drunken lunges.
In the past month since the split with my girlfriend I have disgraced myself, so to speak, in this fashion on several occasions. The hangovers have seemed more bearable, the alcohol-infused buzz has intensified and the pent-up sexual desire has screamed to be satisfied. Consequently my general sense of apathy towards sobriety has extended into the hours of daylight and has, quite simply, made me totally miserable. This, altogether with the confusion and disorientation of the sudden discontinuity in my life, was too much to brush aside.
Thus, whilst stumbling back from Jericho to my house on Iffley Rd one morning, I resolved to abstain from drinking during Lent. In doing so, I have stepped off the train to the meat-market and onto the one to self-control and decisiveness. No matter how bad the cycle of despondency became, it was always possible to look forward to the next alcohol infusion. But it was never a question of escapism, more a matter of self-delusion that my desire for emotional fulfilment could be consoled by a bottle of Beck's and a pull. After all, why was I drinking anyway? Did I always feel the need to give high-sounding reasons to doing something so counter-intellectual?
The answer, in brief, is a resounding no. It is patently obvious that alcohol acts as a kind of social glue, pasting over the inadequate answers to the burning questions of meaning we ask about our lives in Oxford. If I am not drinking, I am holding up a mirror to those whom I am with, unexpectedly reflecting back to them their own insecurities. Their awkwardness is plainly manifested in pathetic jibes about 'virgin' cocktails and non-alcoholic lager. Strangely, I start to feel as if everyone else is the odd one out. It is them who come unstuck.
So whilst my drinking group slip back into insouciance, my enjoyment is complemented by the genuine realisation that refraining from alcohol, at least until I can learn to drink in moderation, is an existential liberation. Instead of relying upon some warped echo of myself to find a fleeting illusion of happiness in physical sensation, I depend upon my true personality to negotiate a path through the issues from which I had previously shied away.
There are no longer any excuses to allow me to abdicate responsibility for my own actions. This in turn enables me to address head on the intangible blend of questions and feelings that life here creates. For a while now I have sensed the seemingly inherent unhappiness associated with the high-pressure Oxford atmosphere and it hurts. Why drown these sorrows when they offer a chance of better social cohesion if we could just stop for an instant to think about it?
No doubt our ingrained and distorted view of success bred through years of exam-orientated education is partly to blame. Nevertheless, the bottom line is that we indulge ourselves in the most decadent sort of drunken behaviour as a remedy for the niggling doubt that we're unsure of what we're really doing here. Drinking provides no solutions, only another repetition of the same old drunken pattern. The only thing I've ever found at the bottom of an empty glass is an excuse to buy another pint.
21st Feb 2002