The Case Against Alcohol: Why Only Fools Drink

The Case Against Alcohol: Why Only Fools Drink

Bryan Mercadente

I do not drink alcohol. I do not smoke. I do not take drugs. I do not even drink coffee, though I must admit I sometimes wish I could persuade Dr Gabb to give up on that last one. There is nothing more wearying than a conversation in which an otherwise intelligent man tries to justify his dependence on a socially acceptable drug by muttering about antioxidants and metabolic boosts. If coffee were invented tomorrow, it would be banned within a week. But I digress.

The point is, I avoid these things not because I am a prude, but because I am rational. I see no particular reason to degrade myself with substances that exist for the sole purpose of making the weak feel less inadequate. And I am not alone in this. Despite the media’s desperate attempts to pretend otherwise, my generation is drinking less, smoking less, and avoiding drugs in ways that would have seemed bizarre to our parents.

The statistics are easy enough to find. Alcohol consumption among young people has been falling for years. Fewer teenagers are picking up cigarettes, and drug use is stagnating. The media, naturally, cannot decide whether this is a crisis or a triumph. On the one hand, it wants to praise us for being responsible. On the other, it frets that we are rejecting the rituals of previous generations, and—most damning of all—becoming less predictable consumers. Because, of course, that is what this is really about. Every bottle of wine we refuse to buy is a nail in the coffin of some dreary tax-funded initiative to keep the NHS staggering along for another month.

For years, we have been told that “moderate” drinking is good for us. We are supposed to believe that a glass of wine a day is the key to a long and happy life. The French do it. The Italians do it. And so should we.

Except that is nonsense. The latest studies make it painfully clear that even small amounts of alcohol are harmful. Alcohol does not strengthen the heart; it weakens it. It does not relax the body; it inflames it. It is a toxin in the strictest sense of the word. The body treats it as such and expends enormous effort breaking it down into something that will not kill us. Every drink accelerates the ageing process, damages our cells, and increases the risk of cancer. The idea that alcohol in moderation is good for you is about as scientifically sound as bloodletting with leeches.

And yet, people cling to it. They cling to it because admitting the truth would be too painful. It would mean acknowledging that every smug conversation about wine pairings and whiskey notes was a self-deceiving waste of time. It would mean realising that they are no different from the unfortunate man on the park bench, except that he at least does not feel the need to justify himself.

It is a simple truth that people drink to escape something. For some, it is loneliness. For others, boredom. For most, it is the crushing realisation that their lives are nowhere near as interesting as they had hoped. Alcohol offers a way out by dulling the senses. It blurs regret and makes the mediocre feel briefly tolerable.

But it is a short-lived reprieve. The drinker wakes up to find the same problems waiting for him, only now with a headache and an even more battered liver. The cycle repeats until he is old, fat, and miserable, consoling himself with the idea that at least he is not one of those boring teetotallers.

There is something specially sad about the intelligent man who drinks. A fool who drinks is merely accelerating his own decline. An intelligent man who drinks is actively choosing to make himself less than he could be. He is deliberately sabotaging whatever talents he might have had. He is the man who, finding himself with a fine sword, decides to blunt it against a rock because he enjoys the sound.

Now, lest anyone take me for a prohibitionist, let me be clear: I do not believe alcohol should be banned. Nor do I believe it should be taxed or restricted in any way. People must be free to make their own choices, even if those choices are catastrophically stupid. If a man wants to drink himself into an early grave, that is his business.

But there is a deeper point to be made here. The world is not overburdened with intelligence. The ruling classes have spent the past century dismantling every mechanism that once ensured a relatively strong and competent population. They have subsidised stupidity through welfare, normalised degeneracy through media, and punished excellence through taxation and social shaming. The result is an ever-growing underclass of people who contribute nothing and consume everything.

If alcohol is harmful—and it is—then surely the best thing we can do is encourage its consumption among those least fit to thrive. If the state insists on coddling and protecting the least intelligent and the least disciplined, and therefore the least capable, then we should at least ensure that they are given every opportunity to remove themselves from the genepool.

Does this sound cruel? Perhaps. But it is no crueler than what has already been done. If we are to be governed by a ruling class that openly despises merit, then we must at least allow natural selection to work in whatever small ways it can. Let the weak drink. Let them smoke. Let them indulge in every vice they can find. In the long run, it will be for the best.

As I said at the start, I do not drink coffee. This is a point of frequent debate with Dr Gabb, who remains stubbornly attached to consuming at least a pound of beans a week. He assures me that coffee is different, that it is not a drug, but a tool, that it enhances rather than diminishes.

I remain unconvinced. If something is necessary to function, then one is its slave. And if one is its slave, then one is no longer free. Coffee, like alcohol, is an addiction dressed up as culture. It is a crutch, and I have no need of it. But I do wish I could persuade Dr Gabb to see things my way. Perhaps, in time, I shall.