The Endgame

Newsletter #130 - Breaking up with booze

Toronto, April 19, 2026

Breaking up with booze

Booze and I broke up two months ago. We’d been together for sixty years. It was a close and affectionate relationship, but it’s over now.

These things happen.

We didn’t plan to split. Alcohol and I were still getting along well. The cashiers at the liquor store across the street treated me like an old friend and called me by my first name. The servers at our favourite restaurant automatically brought me a gin martini when I arrived.

How did it happen? Close readers of The Endgame will know that earlier this year Cynnie and I were in Morocco, an Islamic country. We were there during Ramadan, the holiest month in the Islamic calendar, marked by fasting and prayer. During Ramadan it’s harder than ever to get a drink. For several days after we arrived in Fez I didn’t even try. Then I realized: I had hardly thought about alcohol for a few days and hadn’t missed it one bit. On impulse, without a carefully-considered intention or plan, I decided the time had come. No more drink for me.

You lose agency as you age, particularly over health. There are less and less decisions you can make and implement. Those that remain are to be treasured. Breaking up with booze is one of them. I’m not self-righteous about it, although I have recently mentioned to some of my bibulous friends that they will burn in the fires of Hell.

My favourite uncle introduced me to booze when I was in my early twenties and a skint graduate student in England living in a tiny, damp, cold room. My uncle and aunt lived not far away from my university in a country house that was large, dry, and warm. They were kind and generous and often invited me to come and stay. My uncle liked whiskey and we would drink together at night and talk politics. “The other half?” he’d ask me, after the first pre-dinner glass of Famous Grouse. “A night cap?” he’d suggest after dinner, as he railed against the government (“diabolical” was his favourite description of those in power). He poured whiskey from a decanter into crystal glasses. The ritual symbolized hospitality, luxury, and success. It was a different world, one I wanted to be part of.

After a long stop teaching at university, I became a practising lawyer. For decades, I lived in a drinking culture. Professors and lawyers are traditionally big boozers. Academics have time on their hands and some money: they drink to muffle boredom. Lawyers have less time to spare but more money: they drink to mute stress. I was a corporate lawyer on Toronto’s Bay Street in the last days of the two-martini lunch. For me, boozing was a habit, not a passion.

I’m told that nowadays professors and lawyers drink less. Maybe people are more concerned than they used to be about accusations of malpractice, or sexual impropriety, or drunk driving, or making a fool of yourself. And there’s the increasingly publicized health risks of alcohol. These risks are irrefutable and well-documented. Only a few wishful thinkers still believe that moderate drinking is good for you. A 2023 comment in The Lancet: Public Health described alcohol as “a toxic, psychoactive, and dependence-producing substance and a Group 1 carcinogen [the same classification as tobacco and asbestos]” and concluded that “no safe amount of alcohol consumption for cancers and health can be established.”

So far, abstinence has been surprisingly easy. And I’m reaping the rewards. I’m sleeping better and I’ve lost weight. Cynnie is reaping the rewards too. She says I’m less quarrelsome than I used to be. We’ll see about that.

*****

Some reader comments on Endgame #129 (“Risk”)

Philippe Poussier writes from Bordeaux: “The story about your sailing friend reminded me what happened three days ago when Jean-Michel, a dear friend of mine who is a cardiologist (we have been friends since our medical residency hence for more than 50 years!) came from Paris to visit us and to play tennis with me. At some point during our game, while we were changing sides, he pointed to the defibrillator hung on one of the walls of the court. I thought he was going to congratulate the club for having this potentially life-saving instrument available. Was I wrong? Jean-Michel told me: ‘If I go into cardiac arrest during our game, please don’t do anything, leave this defibrillator where it is...’”

Samantha de Vaux writes from Marrakech: “Love your octogenarian friend’s style and ‘disturb the universe’ will stay with me now, I’ll search for the poem. My mother would have said ‘plenty of time to worry after I die’ and ‘don’t borrow trouble, it may all work out okay’ but knit a water bottle cover just in case? The cats! They’ve passed an edict here in Marrakech ‘don’t feed the stray cats.’ We need to employ them: my internet has been sketchy for days again, disrupting my WFH life. I pay 5000dhs a month and the official Maroc Telecom reason: mice are eating the new underground fibre optic cables. When they say mice, they mean rats. Let’s save the birds and scare the rats out of town. I missed my calling, I really should be in local government, right?”

We hear again from the irrepressible David Wolinsky in British Columbia: “Your column this morning on risk and reward truly inspired me. I turn 85 next week and am often constrained from enjoying life by concerns about risk, but you gave me pause for thought. William Shatner went to space in his nineties and Paul Simon is embarking on a world singing tour at 84. So tomorrow I intend to drive 30 miles into Vancouver to have lunch with my friend Marty despite the risks of highway driving and distance from my doctor in the event of some incident. And if I’m asked to embark on a world singing tour or to go into space, I will consider it, unless they conflict with my numerous medical and dental appointments or something I’m looking forward to on TV. No reason to abandon well laid plans or sensible caution. And Marty is 6 years younger than me so why shouldn’t he drive 30 miles to have lunch with me rather than the other way around, am I right? Good chatting with you.”

From Alan Gratias: “If you are a ‘formula guy,’ divide your age by your own estimation of your life span. The larger the number, the more risk adventuresome you need to be. Make the booking, take the journey, get out of bed. Just don’t tell your actuary, accountant, or partner.” (Alan, I don’t understand the formula.)

Allan Kissack (my nephew) writes from Grantham in England: “I am not a big reader (except sometimes on holiday), but I find myself with this book on my study desk and picking it up often. Small chapters mean you can dip in for a couple of minutes any time. I regularly find myself smiling as I read of Philip’s experiences and thoughts.... because they mirror mine very closely. If you are in the latter half of life I’d recommend you get a copy, it’ll brighten your day and help you realise that others are travelling a similar (bumpy) road. - thanks Philip.” (The book Allan mentions is, of course, All Remaining Passengers.)

The last word goes to Murray Kirkpatrick of Halifax, Nova Scotia: “You were inside my head with this one. However, I draw the line at soloing across the Atlantic.”