Men and alcohol: a revised posting

If you happened to read this blog previously you’ll perhaps remember a similar piece on blokes and getting drunk and the way we can then interact with women. I’ve been given some well placed feedback by some trusted friends on that effort and was reminded of the sanctity of private conversations and my tendency to take what is said, colour it with my interpretation, and then blog it to the world; a recipe for lowering the level of trust if ever there was. Whilst I had people in mind when I wrote that piece, I had no right to forge ahead without giving them the chance to edit the words, as none of us takes away exactly the same sentiment from our conversations. So my apologies for offending them and for offending anyone who happened to read the post. The revised version follows.   

I just read Christopher Hitchens’ latest piece in Vanity Fair.  Hitch must be in his late 50s (my age) and has been living with cancer for close to 12 months.  He’s chronicling the cancer and I always make it the first article I read when VF arrives in the mail, curious to see how he’s doing. I love the way he writes, though not always what he has to say. Currently he’s losing his voice. For a man who talks as well as writes for a living that has to be difficult. He got me in when he asked me if I’ve ever played the game, or just asked the question of my friends “Which would you rather lose; your sight or your hearing (if you had a choice)”. And most of us reply that we’d rather lose our hearing.  But we never offer the choice ‘Which would you rather lose; your hearing or your voice?”  Hitch describes what it’s like to lose the ability to talk. To not be able to engage in conversation with others. To be only able to listen. It might not be a bad thing for me (occasionally) to be unable to talk, as I know I often have way too much to say, and can often value what I have to say over others.  Not very considerate or thoughtful.  And I never learn anything new when I open my mouth.  So Hitch laments not being able to talk as he once did and writes about remembered conversations that seemed a sin to break off.  I’ve had many of those as I’m sure you have too.  And to cement the point (reminding us that he is in a year of what he refers to as living dyingly) he gives us this beautiful quote from the Greek Callimachus talking of his good mate Heraclitus on hearing that Heraclitus was dead.  It goes:

They told me, Heraclitus; they told me you were dead.

They brought me bitter news to hear, and bitter tears to shed.

I wept when I remembered

How often you and I

Had tired the sun when talking

And sent him down the sky

Those long dialogues we have with each other when we’re in the mood to engage are always the best and Hitch's article reminded me of a conversation I had with some friends this week.  We’d just finished watching an advanced copy of the Michael Rymer film Face to Face, and we found ourselves having one of those conversations that Christopher Hitchens now finds himself unable to have.  The conversation was about alcohol, the amount of alcohol we consume and the effects it can have on us, with particular reference to us as men. We were trying to fathom why it is that we can be as hard as nails physically; jump up while it’s still dark, head out for long rides, push and challenge each other to within a heartbeat of our capacity, and work long hours under intense pressure.  And yet we generally will not, for love nor money, tell someone like a mate that his getting drunk is just not a cool thing to do. That probably means we think it’s OK. And maybe it is.

Alcohol is an important part or how we relax and have fun with each other. Yet after many years of being with mates who drink, I’m still at a lose to figure out the attraction of actually getting drunk. What is it in us that we will set out to drink enough to get drunk, knowing that we’ll probably feel like crap the following day?  Perhaps it’s more about the stories we can then exchange, as it’s not that unusual for us to laud a mate who gets pissed, and hold him in good stead for his alcohol tolerance, as if it’s something to be respected. In some sense I think we do respect someone’s capacity to ‘hold their grog’. To drink way past what we know is good for us, and still be coherent enough to carry on a conversation. And still be tough enough to jump up the next day and display no ill effects of the previous night’s drinking.

For me I’ve always thought of getting drunk as a disagreeable activity.  Not drinking as such. Not sharing a beer with friends. Not having a wine with dinner or drinks after work at the end of the week. They’re more than agreeable. What’s disagreeable, at least for me, is when we keep drinking knowing that we’ll soon be pissed or when we let others keep drinking, knowing they’ll soon be pissed. I am unequivocally ambivalent towards alcohol. Yet I know my intolerance of drunks is judgmental and unhelpful. The vast majority of us who get drunk do no one any harm, lest of all ourselves (beyond a possible headache the next day). We can be more entertaining when we’re on the way to getting drunk.  We can loosen up. We can relax. We can have fun. And we can create stories that do the rounds and can be hilarious when we retold by a good story-teller. Drinking and getting drunk under those circumstances can be harmless at worst and great fun at best.

So much however seems to depends on who it is that is getting drunk. There are some of us who probably should never be let near alcohol as it only brings out the worst in us.  We become offensive, aggressive, unpredictable, messy and dangerous.  Yet for others it makes us even more agreeable than we already were. The picture is not, as is so often the case, a simple one. I find myself thinking it is a simple, clear issue, available for judgement by yours truly. Wrong again! For many years I've privately thought less of people who regularly get drunk. Am I alone in thinking this or do you feel the same? 

I'm classified as a non-drinker as I've never actually been drunk myself. I've not enjoyed being around drunk people.Yet my intolerance lacks generosity and closes me off to the upside of the opposite experience. Getting drunk is a part of what many of us do. I've never been comfortable with it so I'd be genuinely keen to hear arguments in it's favour (as I can mount many in favour of the opposing point of view).

To be engaged therefore in a conversation which was attempting to understand our relationship with alcohol, in particular our relationship with alcohol as men, was unusual, interesting and stimulating. Much was talked about in attempting to make sense of the topic and it was agreed that much more could be said by men to men, when we're uncomfortable with what is happening. And this was what the conversation was really about, for me at least: why is it that we don't talk to each other about stuff that makes us uncomfortable? My answer is that to let someone know you are uncomfortable with what was said or done can easily create conflict if not approached respectfully and with care. We are a political species with a finely tuned appreciation of what can be said, to whom, in what context and when. That leads to our wonderful tolerance of each others behaviuor, the many missed opportunities to engage in conversation to understand each other more, and our ambivalence towards both.

My political antennae definitely let me down in the former version of this post. My friends alerted me to this, much as Gene often does. Imagine if they'd chosen not to tell me, but rather to talk about it amongst themselves and leave me ignorant of their feelings. As with Hitch’s ancient friends, while the original conversation and subsequent feedback have both come to an end, the thoughts that went with them have stayed with me. 

Let me know your thoughts.