We all know ‘festive’ means getting drunk. But say you don’t ...


We all know ‘festive’ means getting drunk. But say you don’t want to?

For most of the year, my sobriety is manageable. In booze-obsessed December, it’s a different story

Kate Mulvey

The party was in full swing. Brandishing a twig of mistletoe in one hand, and a glass of champagne in the other, I danced across the room and locked eyes with the stranger in the corner. “Happy Chrisshmas,” I slurred, then, oblivious to the shock on his face, I planted a huge kiss on his cheek and fell on his lap.

When I awoke the next morning, I was in a strange bed and he was next to me. I had no idea how I got there. I staggered out of his flat and vomited in the Uber. I was at my lowest ebb.

Blackouts like this were happening all too often. I was 26 and I had spent the last 10 years in a fug of alcohol and bad behaviour: the broken friendships, the gin and tonics until I passed out in a dodgy club at 3am, and the grovelling letters of apologies to fuming dinner party hosts (“Sorry I ruined the game of Trivial Pursuit, took off my top and demanded everyone dance”) had all taken their toll...

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