14 August 2005
SundayHerald
Aasmah Mir
LAST week, a 20-year-old woman got drunk in her back garden and simulated sex with a bottle, a bin and a blow-up dog. Her name was Kinga Karolczak, she was in the Big Brother garden, and around five million people watched her. Apparently, 83 of them complained to the TV watchdog Ofcom.
Travelling on a bus the following day, I overheard a group of teenage girls who talked of nothing else throughout the 45-minute journey. “Did you see her? Hilarious!” Their hands rushed to cover their mouths in faux mortification. But they were clearly impressed at Karolczak’s nerve and her infamy.
Those worried about the increase in binge drinking-related hospital admissions and the approaching relaxation of licensing laws in England and Wales would have done well to accompany me on the number 73 that morning. In those young, giggling passengers, they’d have seen plenty of evidence of what’s become an accepted social more. It’s cool to get drunk. It’s funny.
I had to laugh myself when I heard that police in Rugby were going to project CCTV images of drunk young people onto the side of a police van to try to embarrass other youngsters into drinking less. I’m surprised that none of the subjects asked the police for a copy for their next reality TV audition.
The government argues that relaxing licensing laws will mean that people will regulate their drinking and there won’t be a rush of folk leaving pubs at the same time. Opponents warn of 24-hour pubs and the potential increase in binge-drinking among young people.
But what about the root: the culture of drink? Not all young people drink too much but it’s clearly a growing problem. And while the youth are demonised for their behaviour, the older generation isn’t setting them a great example.
When I was at university, a thin glass of Coke cost more than a pint of beer. Friends regularly came to grief as they scaled municipal statues; one actually passed out on a speaker at a nightclub, and damaged the hearing in his left ear. Now 35, he still relates that story with pride; a badge of honour, a rite of passage. For him, the raucous pound-a-pint nights are forever associated with good times and growing confidence.
And that inexorable link between alcohol and fun has followed us into our 30s and beyond. People are still fazed when they meet someone who doesn’t drink; unless they’re “on the wagon”, in which case it’s OK because it’s accepted that at least they’ve had a good innings. But if you don’t drink, you’re often viewed as a moralising kill-joy: an unflattering mirror for those whose health and appearance are beginning to suffer because of the amount of alcohol they consume.
A friend realised, at the age of 31, that she didn’t actually like the taste of alcohol and was just drinking “to be sociable”. She gave up for a year. Her social life dried up and she lost about half of her “friends”. She started drinking again, telling me that she couldn’t bear another night of everyone else being drunk and bendy, while she stood there, painfully alive to glassy eyes and beery breath. She just wanted to be in on the joke.
You can tell young people that the length of their hangover isn’t that interesting; that the details of their drunken escapades aren’t particularly hilarious. But how can you tell them that the joke’s not funny any more, when some of us are still laughing about it in our 30s and 40s?
