Why I tell people I don't drink

I just wish I'd used the phrase earlier to save me from those Smirnoff Ices

An accurate representation of my glass on a night out

I can’t remember at what point exactly I started telling people, “I don’t drink”, but I do know why it started.

Since I was a child there are only three fluids I drink: Water, orange juice (not squash) and any form of liquidised chocolate.

Oh, and a peppermint tea every once in a while.

I was clearly a fussy eater/drinker when I was little. In fact my mum likes to share the story of how she picked me up from a party and I was bright red and desperate for water.

‘80s babies were raised on Panda Pop buffets and much to my mum’s amusement, I was too scared to ask for water.

Apart from traumatising childhood memories, having a limited drinks repertoire wasn’t really a problem for me. In fact, I’m glad I drink water 99% of the time because it compensates my other far less healthy life choices.

However, once I hit my late teens, I realised life was gonna get a whole lot tougher for me and my limited liquid palate.

I grew up in the alcopop era and in order to fit in with my Jane Norman clad friends, my drink of choice was a Smirnoff Ice.

I can vividly remember how warm it would get as I clutched onto the same bottle all night, pretending it was my fourth or fifth. Every now and then I’d take a sip and hope no one noticed me wince when the lemon flavour hit my tongue. A few times I’d sneak off to the toilet and pour it down the loo.

It sounds like a lot of effort and it was, but as my millennial friends will know, you could never show weakness around your comprehensive school ‘friends’.

As I got older I realised the freeing effect of alcohol was actually quite fun, but I still couldn’t stomach a Smirnoff Ice. That’s when I started drinking Malibu straight. It was the quickest way to get to my destination and involved the least amount of liquid.

When the house parties stopped and swigging from a white palm tree emblazoned bottle was no longer acceptable, I turned to that ‘70s classic, The Screwdriver. Aka vodka and orange juice.

And that’s where I stayed for the longest time. Drinking room temperature orange juice, always from concentrate, out of a fresh-from-the pub-dishwasher tumbler.

The thing is though, there’s only so many Screwdrivers you can drink in a night before the fear of turning into the Sunny D kid, kicks in and your throat gets coated with fuzz.

I also realised sitting with a pint of Just Juice wasn’t the classiest of vibes, so I switched to the final phase of my pathetic drinking history: The gin and tonic.

At this point I was in my late twenties and working in London. Being drunk had zero appeal to me when I knew I was responsible for getting myself back home to Croydon alone, but I loved the social aspect of work drinks, so always went along. Plus, I was finally with a group of people who gave me the confidence to be myself and not worry about fitting in.

The problem was, me not drinking always seemed to bother other people.

The most common reaction was always one of disbelief. Why would I not? Was I taking notes on their drunken antics to report back? Some people genuinely seemed to think so.

The only way I can describe it is, if you didn’t like pizza and everyone crowded around you and forced you to eat a Pepperoni Feast for their pleasure, while cheering and chanting.

How utterly weird would that be?

Speaking of utterly weird, I didn’t want to explain that I was a woman in my thirties who only drunk three liquids, because that is also a little bit strange.

So, instead of having one gin and tonic (that I didn’t actually want) to be polite, I started telling people, “I don’t drink”.

It’s a short but effective statement and one that immediately stops people in their tracks. In fact since telling people “I don’t drink”, no one has ever pressurised me into having a glass of anything.

Honestly, I don’t even care if that response leads people to believe I have an alcohol problem. In fact, I’m happy for you to believe I’m in recovery.

Rather that, than knowing I’d choose a Nesquik over Whispering Angel any day of the week.

On the right night you still might tempt me to a Sambucca shot for a laugh, but just know, if I hit you with those three words, it ain’t happening.