Why Dry January is dead: inside a Tatler editor’s champagne-fuelled social diary

It’s 10 February and I am only now emerging from a Dry January that was really very wet. There was Laurent Perrier and lobster; Premier League drama and Pussycat Dolls; Hakkassan and hangovers. I can count at least fifteen of the latter and must therefore conclude that my January has been fly, sly. Maybe wry… Basically anything but dry. 

It all begins at 10-something am on New Year’s Day, when I wake up with a banging headache. Blinking because Surely This Is Not Real, I put a hand to my face and am relieved by the absence of congealed mascara. My boyfriend, meanwhile, is a vast cloud of white duvet.

Flashbacks set the record straight: the first glass of champagne at White City House. The second, fifth and twenty fifth. Looking out onto the London Eye as the countdown to midnight culminates in technicolour whirls; ripping my 1992 Yves Saint Laurent lace corset top on its debut outing and not caring because attempting the Dirty Dancing lift is crucial. There’s a picture on my phone of eight empty Moet bottles. Worst hangover of the year. 

I miss the time before January became a dry, boring void of health manifestations, early nights and PR emails promoting juices I never want to drink. The It girl Instagram carousel stops at midnight on New Year’s Eve and freezes over until February. Is everyone really that boring, or is it a month of dirty little secrets? Either way, I’m a Capricorn: Dry January was not made for me, and I’m already on a roll. Want to hear the highlights?

6 January: I’m recovered from New Year’s Eve. It took a good few days, a lot of sleeping and some hill reps, but I’m energised from the return to work, back in my heeled boots and another poor vintage YSL jacket that’s about to get ruined. Off we go again! The first night of a two-part birthday weekend arranged by le boyfriend and la best friend. It’s like boozy Soho Monopoly: French 75s at the Ham Yard, champagne at 76 Dean Street, pizza and prosecco at the original Pizza Express. (Socialite paradise, to those in the know). Then off to a booth full of more champagne at Archer Street. We cheers, we sing, we table dance. Tequila is served. Uber home and bed at 4am. 

7 January: Poached eggs on toast and a serving of White Lotus take the edge off, and the day passes in a blur. By 7pm I’m in crimson Emilia Wickstead and embellished Gianvito Rossi stilettos, circumventing the fifth train strike of the week in another Uber. Gladiators serve us champagne (I’m not dreaming, I’m just at Bacchanalia, Richard Caring’s new restaurant, frequented by Emma Weymouth, Naomi Campbell, Mia Regan and the Spencer twins) then a late night Shou menu at Hakkasan culminates in a liquid nitrogen fog being poured over chocolate caviar and engulfing the whole table.

8 January: We’re off on a three-hour drive to Villa Park to watch Aston Villa v Stevenage in the third round of the FA Cup. Don’t ask why. The weather tries to stop us with gobstopper hailstones and rain so violent it’s near impossible to see, but we arrive in good time to see a very awkward 2-1 victory for Stevenage. Thank god there’s Laurent Perrier in the Director’s Box afterwards. Later, Tom Bradby interviews a boisterous Prince Harry on ITV and reality dawns that the next week is a Sussex special. No rest for the wicked. 

13 January: Prince Harry’s memoir Spare came out and my Whatsapp/email/Twitter went nuts. Because I’m a Tatler editor, I clearly have the inside scoop and everyone wants to know. In an attempt to find out, I interviewed Meghan’s tailor yesterday and hot footed it to Manchester for a weekend of family fun. Today is an escape by way of decadence. El Gato Negro delights with ten tapas dishes and a bottle of Albarino. Then my aunt enlists me to prepare four – yes, four – different types of canapé, grate a million potatoes for gratin dauphinoise and open a bottle of Dom Perignon’s Lady Gaga 2008 pink champagne. Liar dice does not go my way.

14 January: It’s the Manchester Derby and I’m in the Director’s Box with Alex Fergusson a few rows down and United’s most burly supporter one row back, threatening outfit ruin with a coffee cup of red wine. The Stretford end goes wild, while my Directors Box friends clap politely as United take City. A lavish steak dinner at the 92 Suite in Gary Neville’s Hotel Football comes with Veuve, Tiganello and Chateau Margeaux and we sleep on the train home. 

18 January: There have been four days to recover, so I’m raring to go for the Jacuzzi launch party on Kensington High Street, opposite Northcliffe House where I used to intern at ES Magazine and slog back to my friend’s sofa in Hertfordshire every evening – how I’ve climbed! Tonight, Matthew, I’m giving my best Parisian It girl, in my favourite black Marcia dress, loved also by Camille Razat, Amelia Windsor and Caroline de Maigret. Le Boyfriend is back and looking hot in a blue suit. A 14-part menu is promised, but an overambitious guest list of 150 means prosecco, then Barbera d’Asti Superiore, are served first from gigantic bottles, then again and again before dinner makes its way around. When it does, the lobster linguine and T-bone steak are worth the wait. We dance a little, then it’s back home to Richmond. 

20 January: My dad is in town from Dunblane, and I want to show him the highlife. To 34 Mayfair we go, where we are served not champagne but Monkey 47 cocktails, which is part of a new menu the establishment is trying out. Steaks and lamb follow – the best lamb she’s had, says my sister – but we call it an early night. Too much partying is starting to take its toll. The next morning, I go for a run to sweat it out. 

21 January: Part two of the big weekend hits full pace at Pen Yen, where champagne and miso black cod jostle with the burlesque performer Didi Derriere for the headline spot. We, the family, clap ferociously, as Didi flings off her Mugler-esque fashions, down to almost nothing but nipple tassles, because there’s nothing worse than taking your clothes off to a silent audience. 

26 January: it’s the VIP opening of the Metropolitan casino on Old Park Lane, right where the old Met Bar used to be. Our hosts are doing their best to honour the old Brit Pop guard – Liam Gallagher and Meg Matthews, Naomi Campbell, Kate Moss and co – with an open bar. Naturally, that’s where I’m hanging out, surrounded by Gen Z socialites and Pussycat Dolls: yes, Ashley Roberts and Kimberly Wyatt have turned up and it’s hard to not dip into the old Don’t Cha routine from the bedroom mirror. This, dear reader, is living the dream. 

2 February: I had last night off. Champagne January was complete; I had earned the rest. But what to do next? Really… what to do next? 

Sod it. I’m a socialite now. Tonight, I’m taking off into London again. Louie, that brilliant New Orleans restaurant on West Street, is relaunching its bar and it’s the perfect excuse to wriggle into a black sequinned Nadine Merabi skirt and jacket and keep up my streak. There is live jazz and Kiki de Monparnasse cocktails, but this time, I make some new friends. Absinthe, they say, is the new It drink, fit for an It girl. 

Perhaps it’s time to step it up a notch for February. It’s the Brits this weekend, after all – and there’s a sparkling Clio Peppiatt dress and an invitation to the Warner Music party with my name on it…