An utterly grisly concept which turns the entire month of January into a stream of endless Mondays, Dryathlon is the ultimate test of endurance. And this year I have, for reasons I am struggling to think of right now, decided to partake of it.
What Is It?
A bizarre exercise in self-flagellation, which involves giving up the one thing which brings any semblance of joy to one’s life – vodka – in an effort to restore all that health and vitality crap that apparently you can also achieve by drinking a hell of a lot of kale juice.
If the health nonsense isn’t enough in itself to prise that pint from your grasp you can also do it for charity. But then you have got to be the sort of person who’s actually going to ask your friends to sponsor you not to have a drink, which makes you look like a raving yellow-skinned alcoholic in dire need of an intervention.
The dryathlon folk will take the edge off your social suicide, though, by sending you FUN gifts – like a little hat that says ‘Dryathlete’, and some dashing novelty sweatbands, so you can get yourself all dressed up before sitting down to an evening of solo television watching and quiet sobbing.
Progress To Report:
It is now 14 days in and, aside from the fact that my liver’s muffled cries appear to have ceased, I can report no other health benefits.
The drawbacks, on the other hand, been PLENTIFUL and VARIED.
- My friends have slowly begun to disown me
- A cloud of despair has begun following me around
- The streets are paved with misery
- Friday nights bring only hopelessness
- As do Saturdays
- And Sundays
- Passing a pub instantly triggers uncontrollable weeping
- I fear I may have forgotten how to sit on a bar stool
When does it end? Soon please. Please.