In Defence of Public Drunkenness
BY PHOEBE WATT
Why throwing up in the street is a feminist flex.
20 SEP - 2024
In the follow-up to her column on the effortless-to-unhinged pipeline, Phoebe Watt explores drinking to excess in a wellness-obsessed world.
Last week I spewed on my shoes in the street.
Oh yes, thank you for asking! Cult Gaia sandals, strappy, white, now flecked with Bordeaux. The colour, and the varietal.
It was not the first time I’ve disgraced myself in this manner. It was, however, the first time this decade. And so, after brushing the bile and probably a layer of enamel off my teeth, I paused to consider why I let myself drink to excess and what, if anything, I was going to do about it.
Now. This is not the kind of article where I road-test sobriety for a month, report back on my improved mental health/metabolic processes/sense of self-worth, and resolve to limit my alcohol intake to every second Saturday “for as long as it feels right”.
Nor is it an essay about coming to terms with problem drinking. Not my own, at least. Because aside from choosing the wrong wine to go with my dinner (dinner being, in this instance, the mixed berry smoothie I guzzled down at 4pm) the only problem I have with drinking is how expensive it is.
Unfortunately for my bank balance, inflation can’t keep me away from the Countdown chiller on a Friday night, and according to the glass of rosé next to my laptop, neither can vomiting in public.
But in a world where zero-alcohol beverages in pretty pastel cans have recast sobriety from a social handicap into a solid flex, it begs the question. Why does going out and getting a little bit trashed suddenly appeal so much?
Drinking is definitely not as cool as it once was. What used to be a novelty concept, ‘sober curiosity’ is now about as curious as a sale on duvet inners at Briscoes. As generous with their marketing budgets as they are with the elderflower in their spritzers, we can thank the pretty pastel can companies for this – and maybe we should.
In 2023, it was reported that one in six New Zealanders has a hazardous drinking pattern that places them, or others, at risk of harm. In 2019, alcohol use was the leading behavioural cause of death among those aged 15-49 years old. Today, alcohol misuse is estimated to cost NZ tax payers a staggering $7.85 billion every year.
Alcoholism runs in my family, so I know the human cost. Over the years and across multiple generations, I’ve seen the consequences range in severity from problematic, to destructive, to ruinous, to fatal.
As much as we enjoy our drink, we also enjoy the company of drunks. I’m not the first person in my family to have dated an alcoholic, or learned to recognise the rattle of a fridge door opening at 5am, the soft hiss of a screw cap and the unmistakable glug of half a bottle of chardonnay being emptied into a tall glass while you’re pretending to be asleep in sweat-drenched sheets.
Clearly, some people should not drink. I just don’t think I’m one of these people, despite recent events and the fact that it took three Ubers, a second spew into a rubbish bin, and all the dignity I had left to get me and my sticky sandals home in one piece.
And here is why.
I love the taste. I love how it makes me feel. I love that it brings my guard down, and your guard down, and we all stop talking about work and burnout and Taylor Swift, and start talking about death and hardcore kinks and which of our nieces and nephews we’d save in a fire.
In last month’s column, I wrote about a phenomenon I coined the effortless-to-unhinged pipeline. My thesis is that in both attitude and appearance, women are conditioned to exude a kind of undone elegance for the approval of men and society at large. As a result, we’ve mastered the art of throwing together a sexy, laidback, ‘just woke up like this’ look that is paradoxically expensive and time-consuming to achieve.
Happily, this expectation that we try very very hard to appear as though we aren’t trying hard at all has made a whole bunch of us come off our hinges. I say happily because I believe this is a radical act of feminism. Following decades of obeying oppressive beauty and behavioural standards, the ladies are leaning into the delulu.
From a dating perspective, this might look like attempting to win back a disinterested man by belting out b-side Jewel songs over a series of unsolicited voice notes. From a casual Wednesday night perspective, it might mean going out with the girls, losing your phone and falling asleep in your clothes with the lights on.
Phoebe
Is any of this cool? No. Does everything we do have to be cool? Also no – but louder. That’s the point of the pipeline, and for me, the last word on whether I should be embarrassed about my rare moment of public intoxication, or if dishing out three rounds of tips and a total of 15 Uber stars is absolution enough.
None of this is to glorify drinking, or to minimise the devastating impact of alcohol harm on individuals and communities. Alcoholism is a disease. I have endless admiration for those who seek treatment for it, and those who help others navigate sobriety with seemingly bottomless reservoirs of empathy and humanity.
And, I want to pour one out for alcohol, which I feel has been getting a bad rap of late, not all of it deserved.
In a live episode of pop-culture podcast Sentimental Garbage, high-priestess of high/low hijinks and arbiter of the female millennial zeitgeist Dolly Alderton said it best:
“Yes, alcohol addiction is a real, serious thing and those stories must be told. But there’s also this majority experience that isn't told enough, which is that some of it’s good, some of it’s bad, you learn your boundaries, you push it too far, you bring it back, and then it becomes this brilliant, therapeutic, joyful thing in your life.”
What exactly do I find joyful about alcohol? I love the taste. I love how it makes me feel. I love that it brings my guard down, and your guard down, and we all stop talking about work and burnout and Taylor Swift, and start talking about death and hardcore kinks and which of our nieces and nephews we’d save in a fire.
No, I don’t have to be drunk to have those conversations. But I know a ton of people who do, and they deserve to have them, too.
In conclusion, getting pissed is an act of gender rebellion, it’s increasingly subversive, and it’s also really fun.
As for pushing it too far? I’m with Dolly. Let’s just wipe down our shoes and move on.
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