Febfast? Dry July? Uh-huh.
Why not try some self control?
Have every second day off
by PHILIP WHITE
Coming from an ancestry loaded with insatiable boozers
and sanctimonious evangelical teetotallers - not many in between - this writer
finds stuff like Febfast and Dry July about as useful as a knock on the door
from the Jehovah's Witnesses.
When Sam Clemens - aka Mark Twain (below) - was asked by a
reporter at a Melbourne press conference where he'd be going after his death he
shot back "Heaven for the lifestyle; Hell for the company," which as
far as I know was the first recorded useage of the term lifestyle. As this
Febfast orgy of denial seems to me to be a lifestyle issue, it's worth
wondering about whether having died with a perfect liver you'd prefer to spend
eternity singing hymns upstairs around God's big organ with millions of Lutherans,
or sit downstairs by the fire with folks like me.
In other words, with all respect due Mr Twain, bugger the
lifestyle Heaven has to offer. And the company. There'll be plenty of Febfasters
and Dry Julyars up there. The only reason I can think of visiting the Heavenly
throng would be to check whether Beethoven's playing the organ with God turning
the pages, or vice-versa.
As far as I know, my Father's only slip occurred when he
and his Father visited the White Russian refugee family over the road. I have a
very vague memory of sneaking out with the women of the household to watch the
two of them crawling home through the pines after a night on the home-made
vodka. It was about the same time as we went out to watch the Sputnik go over,
and seemed to be on par with that as far as important events went.
Dad devoted the rest of his life to the redemption
business. Apart from his regular pastoral duties, he spent years in some vague
sort of management position at the Women's Christian Temperance Union, which
never seemed to have any women on the board.
As a teenager my Mum got drunk and chundered on a ride at
Luna Park when she ran away from home. She never boozed again. When I was about
forty I tried to explain to her what Château d'Yquem tasted like, and she said
"Ewwww, Philip, you know I'd love it that much I'd be an instant
alcoholic," and that was about as far as that ever went.
My brothers and I were all trained to tip out wine and
beer if we could find any, like in the back of cars of drunks and vagabonds
when they called in to the Old Man's parsonage for a free feed. Sometimes I run
into blokes I can't quite recall, and they immediately remind me that I owe
them a dozen long necks of Coopers or whatever.
The White brothers, well after their prohibitionist stage: left to right: Mark, Philip, Stephen and Paul ... photo Nadia Nottle (daughter of Paul and Marg)
In her
recent BBC piece, Australia's new
non-drinking puritans, Chris Raine, "an affable 26-year-old" runs a thing called Hello
Sunday Morning, a "charity that encourages people to take a break from
booze for between three and 12 months, and blog about it."
"You'd
think that if you go into a bar and tell people your job is to tell people not
to drink for three months then they would scatter, but people are really
interested," he told her "over a chocolate milkshake in a trendy
Melbourne cafe."
Over a chocolate
milkshake, see? Late weaner? As for a blog written about not drinking?
Thank God I
was healed of my proho wowserism at the age of eighteen, grew up, and spent my
whole life since kicking for the boho team.
The author on the throne with sherry and spliff, 1972
There's a wave of dry interferist nonsense flooding the media as I write: reams of psuedo medical stuff about self-deception and self-worth and lurid descriptions of what a certain number of drinks per week can do to your pancreas or liver.
My Dad's
brother, Robert, drank metho for about thirty years after his oilrig money ran
out. He could drink quite a lot of it, neat, and laughed all the time. Twice he
underwent surgery to have great lumps of liver chopped out but when he died
after a two-bottle binge in his late sixties the post mortem said there was no
liver left. He lasted a lot longer than the shadow-boxing Terry O'Rielly, another
infamous drunk whose brother was the Governor of Northern Ireland. Terry lived
in Victoria Square in a suit and tie, reciting endless reams of James Joyce and
Sam Beckett. His fallback tincture was unique:
he'd put a slice of toast on an empty soup tin, tip a can of Brasso through it,
and sink the strained spurruts in a gulp.
These are
the sorts of consumption which need mental health attention before the liver
cleaver comes into action, or the sanctimonious start hovering around,
preaching. Unfortunately, mental health seems to have vanished as an issue if Australian
budget allocations are any measure.
The daily
dependence such alcoholics suffer is rarely solved by Febfasts or Dry Julys.
Not to pick on the Lutherans, I was always fascinated by the Barossa's respect
of Lent. For the whole six weeks from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday they won't
touch a drop. Then they have the decidedly moist Vintage Festival where dancing
on the tables is verboten, but Lent seems quickly outdone by the feasting and
dancing on tables which that beautifully-organised riot incurs.
To reinforce
my belief that there are a lot more old drunks than old doctors, one moderate theory
comes from nutritionist Professor Charles Bamforth of the University of
California, Davis. Of course he agrees that drinking too much is plain silly,
just like eating too much.
But just as there's a difference between eating too much
salad and stuffing yourself to bursting point eating Macca's, the Prof insists
that care in the choice of drink is as important as the volume. Like there'd be
a health difference between Red Bull with Baileys and a butcher of real ale, or
a glass of organic red wine.
"The key is a little and often," he says. "You
are seriously mistaken if you think that having a month without drinking will
protect you from the effects of excessive drinking for the rest of the year ...
The best advice is to drink moderately throughout the year ... Many people
don't realise that drinking in moderation has significant health benefits and
that moderate drinkers have a longer life expectancy than non-drinkers ... Regular
moderate intake of alcohol is good for the heart and blood circulation.
"The great thing about beer," he continues,
"is that it is low in alcohol and brewed from natural raw materials so
it's a good source of important nutrients such as antioxidants, B vitamins and
dietary silicon that promotes strong bones ... Indeed beer used to be known as
liquid bread."
My preferred degree of abstinence was that maintained by
Sir Frank renouf, the Kiwi tycoon who was for a time married to Susan
Peacock/Sangster/Renouf (left). Sir Frank was a good bloke, and when I spent a few
days with them in the late 'eighties he was a hale and hearty gentleman in his seventies
who carried his tennis racket everywhere. As I learned taking him to visit Marg
and Peter Lehmann, and Wyndham and Helen Hill Smith during a stay in Adelaide,
he was also a thirsty old rogue.
When I asked the secret of his radiant fitness, his response
was so simple as to stun.
"I drink only on alternate days," he said.
"Every second day I abstain."
The old rascal went on to explain that the habitual
boozer is often corralled by regular events, like after work on Friday nights,
when one tends to make a bit of a mess. By rigidly holding to his schedule,
such routines are soon broken.
Sir Frank went on to live another decade. I'll bet he's
not singing hymns with the Lutherans.
1 comment:
brasso through toast????! I think i need a drink now.
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