Late last year, I woke up after a boozy night out and was immediately hit with the recollection of telling a disgusting story to the people I was having dinner with. I wasn’t sure if I was remembering it exactly as it happened, or whether my brain was adjusting the image to improve my behaviour. Either way, they had mild horror in their eyes.

This has always been a potential social hazard for me, drunk or not. When you spend your day writing comedy, particularly with others, the discussion of jokes and how far to push things with a group of unoffendable colleagues means that your grasp of what is acceptable in normal conversation is often skewed. I have ruined more than one night out with other couples by making a joke about goat sex, only to find that: “Helen actually grew up on a farm and was triggered by what you said.”

When drunk, things get even worse. I suddenly think I’m charming and hilarious. Goat sex is merely an hors d’oeuvre to my full range of drunken anecdotes and I become oblivious to any potential offence. I also get needlessly helpful. A wedding was once tarnished by a drunken me offering to get rid of a wasp that was bothering a pregnant guest, and then immediately smashing it straight into her face.

That particular morning’s recollection left me feeling particularly mortified, however. I was also struck by how little I could engage with our children while hungover, which felt particularly silly when I am away from home so much. I decided that the negatives were clearly outweighing the benefits, and made the decision to give up alcohol. I am a charmless grouch at the best of times, but sober me is a genuine delight compared to the obnoxious joke-shouting cyclops I become when hammered. (My lazy eye completely closes.) I didn’t know how long for; I just knew I wanted to stop for a bit. I mentioned it to my wife, who said that she quite fancied giving it up for a bit, too, and so we decided to become the couple that nobody wants to hang out with.

I thought that stopping before Christmas was a great idea, providing me with a baptism of fire that would then stand me in good stead for the new year. But not drinking over Christmas was a doddle compared with January, where everybody thinks you are doing Dry January. I used to think that people just hate vegans; I have since discovered that everybody hates anyone who abstains from anything.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been told that Dry January is a mistake, and that, actually: “Your liver is not getting a rest, you are just tricking it, and when you do drink again it will be so surprised that it could actually explode.”

The other thing that should be noted here is that I have, in the six weeks since I stopped, experienced zero health benefits that I can discern. Advocates of abstinence (great band name) will often pretend that amazing things happen within minutes of quitting, which is as big a lie as the idea that vegans don’t miss non-vegan food.

The major benefit is that I have stopped fearing nights out. I know I will feel OK the next day, I know I won’t leave too late, because I will realise that the possibility of any new conversation has been exhausted, and that the evening will now just involve recycled conversations until 3am.

One slight issue is that I find myself trying to prove I have not become boring, worried that I’ll be gradually airlifted out of social circles because I’m actually only fun when mixed with vodka.

My one big hope? My tolerance will drop to such a level that I can get off my tits on a shandy.