Rainy grey skies so often compound the gloom of going back to work after the Christmas break. Not least in my hometown of Manchester, given its lousy – though justified – reputation for unrelenting drizzle. So as offices creaked back to life this week, the picture-postcard combination of winter sunshine and dusty snow has likely made the return to routine a little more palatable.
Can’t those who wish to rest their livers do so quietly?
Yet regardless of this uptick in the weather, the start of 2026 is, for me, anything but dry. In fact, it’s what I’m dubbing Wet January (don’t all trademark it at once). For unlike those worthies who, to counter Christmas excess, have pledged to give up the sauce in the month-long Dry January campaign, I’m doing the exact opposite.
Heck, why wouldn’t I? After all, January is already the dreariest month of the year. What with pitiful bits of stray tinsel still hanging over the office photocopier, and shops desperately trying to shift cut-price Christmas puddings.
It’s all so bleak. Days are short, pockets battered, and summer is an unfocused speck on the horizon. It’s also a period freighted with cheerless statistics: January is known as ‘divorce month,’ and its third Monday – the infamous Blue Monday – is supposedly the most depressing day of the year, thanks to bad weather, post-holiday debt, and failed New Year’s resolutions.
So why make this joyless time even worse by jettisoning the booze? Surely now more than at any other point in the calendar, there’s a need for hoovering up leftover chocolate liqueurs or slugging down a comforting dram after a long day.
Wet January isn’t just uplifting; it’s vital. The other night, at dinner with friends, I took particular pleasure in adding an extra splash of vodka to my tonic. Meanwhile, my normally enthusiastic drinking companions – usually gin-flushed by the time the soup arrives – ruefully demurred. The forced smiles over non-alcoholic wine (a concept as ghastly as synthetic cheddar) couldn’t have provided greater contrast or justification for the easy merriment brought on by my generously poured mixer.
Of course, it’s understandable that people might want to cut back on drinking after Christmas: thicker waistline, thinner wallet, and all that. And it would be churlish not to acknowledge the health benefits of Dry January, which was first launched by Alcohol Change UK in 2013.
A 2018 University College London paper about short-term abstinence noted weight loss of around 2kg, a drop in blood pressure of roughly 5 per cent, and a decrease in blood growth factors linked to certain cancers. Though, as one co-author soberly (sorry!) noted: ‘We don’t know how long these benefits last, or whether they translate to long-term health improvements.’
So the concept has some merits. But does it have to take the extreme form, as Dry January does, of a nationwide act of self-flagellating sobriety? Why the fanfare? Can’t those who wish to rest their livers do so quietly, in some dark, unceremonious corner, without turning it into a collective moral crusade that shames the lush who walk amongst us?
Anyway, aside from the irritation of coordinated sanctimony, what about the impact of Dry January on our pubs? The hospitality trade has already been hammered by rising business rates, employer National Insurance, and inflation-linked alcohol duties. According to official figures, 366 pubs were demolished or converted in the year to December 2025 because of enduring struggles in the sector. That’s one a day. Dry January just puts the boot in.
What’s more, who wants to go for an after-work drink in a draughty coffee shop where the barista screeches your name over a fancy – sickly – latte? It’s no substitute for the pub experience, with its bar-side banter and the sense that you’re in someone’s welcoming home.
I love being parked by the open fire at my local while winter gloom presses against the windows. Pubs are places for real conversation and human connection. They also play a vital role in communities: be it hosting charity nights, social groups, or just providing a warm corner for anyone who needs it. Why punish pubs, so central to the fabric of British life, when they’re already fighting to survive?
If Dry January has one purpose it should be as a reminder that life isn’t meant to be lived in extremes or dictated by performative trends. Real human experience is messy, nuanced, and sometimes requires the comfort of a fireside pint or a finger of whiskey. Not framed by iron-clad restrictions that can’t bend to feelings in the moment. That isn’t to endorse getting so sozzled the gutter is your second home, but to recognise that sometimes a cask ale or restorative double is exactly what January calls for. Hashtags don’t cut it.
So raise a glass (of the hard stuff) to Wet January. It won’t bring summer any closer, of course – but at least you’ll be too merry to care.
Comments