Going out clubbing tonight? Why don't you try it sober?

Last June, I watched the England vs Germany Euro 2020 football match with a group of friends in a pub in Berlin.

When England won 2-0, I celebrated like a true Brit: By getting completely drunk and throwing up everywhere. 

The next morning, I woke up with a terrible hangover and even worse post-drinking regret. I called my dad for moral support.  

‘Kez, half of England probably threw up last night,’ he reassured me. ‘And we’re through to the quarter-finals!’ 

He certainly had a much more casual view of excessive drinking than natives of the country where I now lived. In German culture, it’s expected that you can handle your beer, even if you’re drinking 10 pints in a row.

But I’d grown up with the British attitude of getting completely wasted – and if you throw up, who cares? Just call it a ‘tactical chunder’ and get ready to drink some more. 

It sometimes crossed my mind that my drinking was heading into out-of-control territory. Since the pandemic sucked the fun out of everyday life, I often turned to alcohol as an instant pick-me-up.

When lockdown eased, I thought the only way to make the most of the novelty of nightclubs reopening was to go at least once a week and drink as much as possible. 

However, despite suspecting I was drinking too frequently, I’d never felt that cutting back on alcohol consumption through an initiative like Dry January or Sober October was necessary.

At 24, I felt firmly in my hedonist phase, entitled to drink as much as I liked to make the most of my youth while I could. 

I enjoyed the rest of the summer vomit-free, consuming a generous amount of cocktails, but not more than my body could handle.

Then, in October, I went on a night out with my dad, who has been sober for 17 years for health reasons. As I watched him fling himself around the dance floor with no inhibitions, I wondered if I could ever feel as free as he does without the help of alcohol.

The notion of partying sober seemed impossible to me – but the idea lingered in my mind for a few days. I decided that the only way to truly find out if I could enjoy a night without alcohol would be by trying it myself. 

I had a night out planned for the upcoming weekend, but when I considered not drinking during the evening I’d been looking forward to, I felt like the night would be ruined before it had even begun. With a sinking feeling, I realised that if I ever wanted to reduce my reliance on alcohol, I had to give a sober night out a try. 

I turned up to the pre-drinks optimistic: the first few hours of the evening would be spent hanging out with my close friends, whose company I love whether I’m completely wasted or stone-cold sober. But as they all consumed copious drinks while I sipped on tonic water, I felt myself slowly drifting out of the conversation. 

I’m normally loud enough to butt into any topic with a joke or opinion, but I hadn’t reckoned on how tricky it would be to converse with drunk people when I was so… not.  

The normal patterns of communication disappeared, and I struggled to find anything to say in response to ‘This Oasis song,’ ‘No, this one!’ ‘Isn’t Britpop amazing?’ while Champagne Supernova played on a loop. 

The next day, I texted the main culprit, my cousin Phil, about his repetitive conversation and DJ skills. His response: ‘I stand by that sober: that song is good enough to listen to five times in a row.’ And then, ‘Oh God, I’m going to be in one of your articles, aren’t I?’

So, the pre-drinks hadn’t met my expectations and so far, being sober amongst a group of drunks made me feel like I didn’t understand the joke that everyone was laughing along to.  

But then, we went out for the night. As soon as I walked into the darkened nightclub and heard the first pulses of music from the speaker, I immediately felt at home. All I wanted to do was dance. 

As the evening went on, I was amazed at how my sobriety made the whole experience of dancing more enjoyable.

Throughout the night, I had boundless energy and I felt more connected to the music. My friends’ drunkenness became diluted by the nightclub environment, where little communication (repetitive or otherwise) was necessary. 

I realised that this feeling, that I’d missed inexplicably during 18 months of on-off lockdown, wasn’t actually to do with getting drunk at all. All I’d wanted was to be in a dark room packed with strangers, dressed up in a glittering outfit, listening to ear-splitting bass and letting my body move.

After that first night out not drinking, I was keen to repeat the experience. The following few weeks, I spent several nights out sober; sometimes drinking alcohol with friends beforehand and switching to energy drinks in the queue to the club.

I’d become addicted to spending all night dancing, then waking up without the splitting hangover that I’d now realised wasn’t a prerequisite to having fun. 

My choice to drink less reflects a growing trend in the UK: In January 2021, one in five alcohol drinkers in the UK gave up drinking for the month, in honour of Dry January. According to a 2021 study by UCL, 91.5% 18-29-year-olds who were drinking heavily a year ago have reported decreasing their drinking. 

It seems our cultural need for alcohol is becoming less prominent – and several people I know are also jumping on the bandwagon. After mentioning my sober nights out to a few friends, some were intrigued by the prospect of not ruining the next day after a night of drinking. 

I always tell anyone considering it, try it. Although I still enjoy a drunken night out from time to time, knowing that I can enjoy myself without alcohol was a revelation. A sober night might just subvert your expectations for how much fun sobriety can be. 

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