This is actually a really interesting topic... as well as a bloody tricky debate, because weirdly, I can see both sides of it.
First up, my gut reaction to the 13 year old thing was: What WAS she thinking? Forgetting the fact that at 13 it's going to cause a fair amount more damage to an immature body unused to the stuff, and that it wasn't just her own kid - there was a friend involved, and I'd be far from thrilled if I was her parent. And this is intended as a precautionary measure to stop them going out, finding their own drink, getting pissed and causing a nuisance in public? If nothing else, this proves to me what a sheltered world I'm living in, as I'm not sure where a 13 year old is to find the means to do so... yeah, so maybe some places will turn a blind eye to older looking 16/17 year olds, but 13? As someone who was still being thoroughly checked at 21, that scares me slightly...
So, am I being a touch hypocritical, and not just because my own drinking history is sadly the stuff of infamy around here? My parents policy was never really discussed until I was 16 (I'd guess I was first offered alcohol at a party at 15, and the heavily watered down vodka being jealously guarded by 'cooler' kids made it tricky for me to get a look in!), but they insisted, even on special occasions of checking with parents first, then allowing one, maybe two glasses, and that was the end of it. I've never liked wine or beer, which made it tricky for them to begin with...
However, there's still the argument I can very much see for 'taking away the special, naughtiness value', call it what you will. For, while alcohol was usually present in the house, though again, disguised by the fact that I viewed wine in the same way as tea or coffee, something older people drank after a meal and in which I had no interest... I can't remember exactly how old I was when I first necked the shots of brandy/whiskey whatever that was left on the tray by the fireplace one Christmas Eve, but what I DID realise was that whilst I didn't much like the taste, I liked the feeling that accompanied it - this was something special, something different and exciting to be acquired at whichever opportunity I could. Unfortunately, sensing my already unhealthy interest, it would be a while before my paths crossed with the demon spirit again, and barring the glass of champagne I stole at some family function or other at the age of 10, which left me asleep on the sofa for most of the evening, it would have been a number of years before my path crossed with the demon spirit once again. Fast forward to around the age of 16, and I was old enough to know where in the house the bottles containing that euphoric sensation I'd previously encountered lay, but they'd only come out on rare occasions, thus making them all the more special for me; I was actively discouraged from seeking them out myself, and feared retribution or worse yet, their altogether withdrawal...
I'm turning this autobiographical... but I'm bored this afternoon, and for one thing, I reckon I'm learning something about myself from putting this into words :? Anyway, as everyone else is posting their own stories and experiences... My home social life as such would only really pick up around a year after I joined this site, and thus I didn't find myself in a situation with a supply of alcohol, away from parental restriction until a couple of months before my 18th birthday. Thinking back, I didn't go as wild as I could have done, considering I was surrounded by friends who were for various reasons far more familiar with drink - at least 1 person would end the night in a pile of vomit, but I wasn't amongst them... so long as my glass was kept topped up, my memories are of lying on a sofa, singing to bad music and saying nice things about people; highly out of character for me at that age, as many of you may recall!
Anyway, the point I'm getting to here is that THEN, I turned 18 - the day I'd longed for, when the magical, mythical substance could finally be acquired by my own hand... the times of restriction were over, and it was time to acquire vodka, and unleash hell. Granted, to an 18 year old Will, a quarter bottle was a week's supply of mayhem, while his 21 year old counterpart would polish off two at the beginning of an evening, and go looking for more. The point I'm making is that this was arguably the beginning of a downward spiral, for of course, being pissed appears to make you 'cool' or 'funny', and maybe at that point it did help me to fit into groups better - I certainly grew a lot better at talking to strangers with a few inside me - but it also meant that I slotted effortlessly into the position of resident drunk in each of my social groups - again, anyone who's read my older posts on here will know as much...
However, perhaps contradictory to the above rant, there’s also an excellent argument that more’s down to personality than the drink itself, or the way in which you’re conditioned towards it. Thus, I’m in no way suggesting that in providing said 13 year old with alcohol, you’re effectively condemning them to my student lifestyle; I’ll happily put my hands up and say that it’s possibly me Furie’s referring to as 22 with the drinking attitude of a 14 year old. As Marc’s observed above, there’s always going to be the people who have find it near impossible to stop at one, those for whom ‘normal’ or ‘social’ drunken nights are a mythical concept, and who’ll end up drinking everyone else under the table without realising they’re doing it, and then considering it an achievement, chances are to realise the following day what an abject berk they’ve just made of themselves. “WHY DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO GET STUPIDLY DRUNK?” I remember a certain person screaming at me during one of our many arguments in the dying embers of 2009, and even at the time, overlooking their always virtuous hypocrisy, I had to admit I had no answer, it was simply what I’d learned to do, and now I knew little different. Now, I’m not stupid enough to suggest that that story would have had a sunset ending in an alcohol-free world, only to acknowledge that my relationship with alcohol had a bearing on its course from Day 1.
But I’m not taking all the blame myself for being <img src='http://www.coasterforce.com/forums/images/smiles/icon_censored.gif' /> in the head, many people here have already condemned the drinking attitudes of the British students, whose primary concern when not whining about money, is just exactly how trashed they got last night and how they’re to better this the following night. To an extent, I was infected with this, but thanks to various factors, moreorless lacked a social life during my 3 years stuck 180 miles from home at Uni, during which time I’m confident of having ‘learned’ to comfortably outdrink my peers, with nothing else to do long into night after lonely, tedious night, this self-destructive cycle would grow in strength, reaching its climax on the morning of April 22nd, 2008; I won’t go into detail, but it involved a busy Euston station platform, vomit, and my best tramp imitation on the onward train. Eurgh… And yet I wouldn’t learn – less than 18 months later, I still seemed to consider it some kind of achievement to be able to consume more in an evening than a bunch of 1st year students, not even putting two and two together upon realising how stupid half of them were acting, and how revolting I considered most of their life ethe were, as a consequence of that. Put simply, like so many others in this topic, I’m a hater of that sort of “Yay! We’re going OUT and will be pissed and act like a bunch of twats/sluts etc.” student attitude… and yet, at the time, that didn’t seem to stop me recycling their words to defend my own shameful behaviour. It was all very well of me to pass it off as merely another method of escapism, but from what, precisely, did I think I was getting away. And of course, as I’d FINALLY realise this year, this particular means of escape could frequently transport me into a world dictated by something far worse, and which I was merely fuelling.
To make matters worse, after 3 years of that a situation in which, as Furie says, people have been allowed to become obsessed with alcohol, since as on holidays, or special occasions, it is accepted, near enough encouraged at whatever time of day or night, whatever the circumstances. And by the time you’re brought crashing back into a real world of actual responsibilities, it’s too late, and you’ve basically locked yourself into the lifestyle, which is presumably where Marc’s work colleagues find themselves, longing for a 5PM at which they can return home, crack open their respective bottles and transport themselves into nothingness. By mid-twenties, you may question whether or not this is entirely healthy, but the problem has set in before this time, in an environment in which it’s pretty much expected.
Obsession? Perhaps too strong a word for the majority, but take a person with the right (or wrong) mindset, and the recipe for disaster is never far away. The very fact that I’ve accidentally written an essay on the subject shows the lasting effects it has on the sort of mind which would, for 4 or more years, have listed ‘vodka’ among his all time 5 favourite things. Ouch. Since this is becoming depressing writing, and has increasingly little to do with the topic, as again, I doubt the story I’m for some reason telling has any relation to the fate of Ciall’s sister, her friend or the VERY vast majority of recreational drinkers, I’ll try to draw to a close. A number of the people who’ve posted in this topic were unfortunate enough to witness me in full sorrow-drowning mode following a double-whammy of ultra-depressing, life changing moments, which brought out the very worst in me, while others had unlucky encounters with me online in the small hours of whichever morning. Likewise, anyone who was in THAT Travelodge last October, which, while I feel nothing but nausea and remorse at the very thought of it, a small handful of CFers seem determined to never let me forget. Alcohol and any negative emotion invariably adds up to the most lethal cocktail of them all, thus neither of these occasions were in any way pretty, and could no longer have a place in my life. As casual self-destruction deteriorated into outright self-loathing, one ill advised bout of MID-AFTERNOON drunk dialling, and a couple of particularly unpleasant nights in early April ensued, and I’d finally reach the conclusion many friends had casually suggested over 6 months earlier; enough was enough.
I think this is the first time I’ve actually mentioned it on the forums, but it’s been 123 days since my last drink – not bad for a guy who couldn’t even manage Stone Cold’s 1 month challenge last November without cheating within the first week. That, and the fact that it’s in no small way responsible for me weighing roughly a third less than I did this time last year are possibly my proudest achievements of the year, but there’s another side. I don’t generally make a habit of agreeing with Smithy, but he’s got more than one point this time around – for a while, you do feel as if you’re being boring as a consequence, and while I have no problem spending the night at a pub or friend’s house on the diet coke (annoyingly, I’ve kept my old drinking rate, so I get through about 3 litres of the stuff in a night, hence the diet…) but I’ve not been on a proper night out since, as I think what little enjoyability it ever had will be long gone. I had concerns that it might turn me into more of a social recluse, but happily I’ve got that much more general energy and lust for life now that until the caffeine wears off, it can be hard to tell that I’m the sober one. Not to get evangelical here, more uncharacteristically sentimental, but it’s the company, conversation and atmosphere that makes a fun evening, not the substances, and in turns of company both on and off CF, 9 times out of 10, I’m a <img src='http://www.coasterforce.com/forums/images/smiles/icon_censored.gif' /> lucky guy. Temptation… is minimal, owing to the fact that I wouldn’t go back to where I was in late March for anything, and annoyingly, it seems just the first drink could so easily do just that. Whilst ordering 2 pints of Guinness for my friends and a diet coke for myself at an Iron Maiden gig can seem like the most depressing thing I’ve said since April, it’s a small price to pay. As for the metaphorical talking bottles, let’s just say the regional accent Smirnoff adopts inside my head is from quite a bit closer to home than Russia…
Looking back, I’m not sure what the point of that was either, so I hope it doesn’t get taken the wrong way. Perhaps, while I reiterate that that wasn’t a typical story, I’m providing evidence for Joey’s graph as well as his morals. At the end of the day, ignoring the relevant law, the choice comes down to the parents of Ciall, his sister, and millions of others like them. While I’m not saying ram the sort of crap I’ve just written down their throats in the same way the National Curriculum seems determined to do with respect to drugs, I’ve written the stark truth - there’s a very bloody real risk involved, and perhaps its that our youth “need to be introduced to”, since when it comes to alcohol, it’s not nearly as friendly as that first bewitching sip has you believe…
Firstly, I’m now so bloody glad that its not down to me to set guidelines on such things – I’m glad it’s a long way off, as I’m now wondering where the hell this leaves me with regards to my own ill-fated children, maybe I just pray they’re born with the wisdom of my younger sister who’s never touched a drop, and after witnessing me and my Mum in varying states of ridiculousness never will. Finally, I do hope my interminable waffle hasn’t driven you to drink
