An Enthusiast’s guide to gifts for drunks


When you’re known for drinking a lot, or when your entire public identity is say, based on the fact that you write an alcohol blog, people tend to be afraid to go on pub crawls with you or come to your house (although in retrospect that second one might have nothing to do with the drinking…).

Anyways, my point is this: You receive almost exclusively as gifts bottles and bottles and bottles of booze. I swear I’m not complaining—pretty please don’t ever stop giving me booze!—but let’s say you want to stand out in the eyes of a special drunken someone, or maybe you want to give your favorite drunk a present that will take them longer than 34 minutes to ingest (huh, that didn’t come out right). In any case, here are some solid gift ideas:

Drinkwel: Since you don’t have magic powers and can’t exactly banish from your favorite drunks’ mornings forever their wretched hangovers, we suggest buying them Drinkwel. We’ve written extensively about our favorite hangover-alleviating vitamin, and if you’ve partied with us, we’ve probably tried to force-feed it to you (those were just vitamins, I swear!)

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The Drunkest I’ve Ever Been: The exciting conclusion of 2010


I work at the One Union recording studio. One year, our annual Christmas party was to be followed by a recording session at 2am. Turns out we were connecting to Cape Town, South Africa to record “Ninja” from Die Antwoord. It was noon there.

The fancy shmancy restaurant we go to for dinner every year is Jardiniere, by the opera house. They pour drinks with a heavy hand! We all had some whiskey at the office before the party, and once there I indulged in my usual drinking of the oldest and most expensive scotch they have available (it’s on the boss’ tab!) The dinner went well, was really fun, and Jesus those scotches were huge! We ate scallops, steak, risotto, holy shit, tons of buttery french shit piled up on top of all that booze. I drank like an asshole even though I knew I had an overnight session coming up.
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Family cheer

—Christian and Josey

There’s something magical about this time of year. The air is crisp with cold and possibility as we huddle inside with the people we care most about.

Parents who cut extra-loose, with stories about after-partying in the ’70s told louder and more insistently following every downed cocktail and emptied bottle of red wine. Your aunt with an over-flowing glass of scotch who travels a few miles past sobriety and reminisces about the pants you wore at nineteen that were so baggy they threatened to expose your nether regions. The underage cousin you sneak a few hundred too many Jack swigs to, whose bedroom floor later feels the wrath of your indiscretion. The overage cousin you do shots of the Goldschlager you hid beneath your bed during high school with—insisting that you still fucking love this stuff and swearing that the bottle wasn’t, in fact, first opened over a decade ago. Even the older, unrelated gentleman who everyone likes but no one remembers inviting, who passes while out standing up and must be carried to a couch to sleep it off.
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