About 135 truly disciplined folk from this region joined in Dry July.
Credit to them.
Thirty-one days of abstinence is a considerable aberration in this land's hectic drinking diary. Imagine Fridays sans an end-of-week pinot, Sunday roast lamb dinners minus a bottle of cabernet sauvignon or a wintry rugby match without a chocolate mouthful of stout.
Then of course there's the midweek treat of sweet riesling paired with a man-size wedge of blue cheese.
July doesn't work for me. It's my daughter's birthday on the 6th. It'd be negligent not to raise a glass of bubbles.
Maybe I could handle an Austere August. Thing is, the second of said month is my birthday, hence a denial of one's age and that very human longing for a sense of self-induced otherness. Besides which, whitebaiting begins in August. What's the point of fishing in the knee-deep chill if you can't retire with a single-malt or wash fritters down with a chardonnay.
I'd contemplate Sober September, if it weren't my wedding anniversary.
October is essentially Hoptober - beerfest season.
November is my wife's birthday.
December, January or February? Forget it summer lovers.
Our country's cultural mores dictate an ingrained alcohol match for every occasion. And when there's no such occasion, we commiserate with a cold one.
Besides, what is lengthy abstinence if not self-flagellation with a view to atonement. Total abstinence is the brainchild of farce. Cutting back on volume sounds a better bet.
Moderation March? There's a goer.