A Short History of Drunkenness
A Short History of Drunkenness
I don’t always read books about beer, but when I do, I prefer A Short History of Drunkenness by Mark Forsyth. In this book, Forsyth takes us on a whirlwind tour through 10,000 years of human drinking culture — from ancient Mesopotamia to Viking halls to Wild West saloons. It’s a funny, well-written book packed with fascinating facts about drinking culture throughout history.
Humanity has been getting drunk for longer than we’ve had writing, farming, or cities. In fact, the leading theory for why we invented farming is that we wanted a reliable supply of beer. Civilization might just be a side effect of not wanting to sober up.
A few highlights:
The Ancient Egyptians had a yearly religious festival called the Festival of Drunkenness. State-sponsored, mandatory, held in a temple — and priests added emetic herbs to the beer to ensure everyone vomited. Nothing says “thank the gods” like communal ritual nausea in a house of worship.
The oldest “X walks into a bar” joke is from Ancient Sumeria: “A dog walked into a tavern and said, ‘I can’t see a thing. I’ll open this one.’” Why that’s funny has been lost to the ages, but the format has survived completely intact. The dog joke is immortal.
The Greeks thought getting drunk was a philosophical exercise. Plato’s argument: you can only demonstrate self-control when tempted, and nothing is more tempting than wine. Therefore, a man who refuses to drink has never proven he has any self-control. His conclusion: you can’t trust a teetotaler.
The Ancient Persians debated every major political decision twice — once drunk, and once sober. If they reached the same conclusion both times, they acted on it.
The Aztec phrase for being very drunk was “as drunk as 400 rabbits.” There were 400 divine rabbits — the Centzon Totochtin — each representing a different flavor of drunk. One for happy drunk. One for weepy drunk. One for violent drunk. And so on.
The Vikings had a cup called the bragarfull — the promise-cup. Any oath sworn over it was absolutely binding, enforced by a sacred boar and reported directly to the goddess Freya. One man accidentally swore to marry his brother’s wife. His brother’s response: “a promise is a promise.” It did not end well.
Australia was founded as a dry colony. This lasted approximately as far as Plymouth harbor, where the marines mutinied over the no-alcohol policy before the ships even left. The colony eventually became a rum-based economy, had its only military coup over rum, and built its first hospital via an elaborate rum-related con. The hospital was nicknamed the Sydney Slaughterhouse. It is now the New South Wales Parliament.
Prohibition actually worked, sort of. Alcohol consumption halved. Liver disease dropped. Industrial output went up. What it also did was invent organized crime, make drinking feel thrillingly illegal, and destroy the entire American distilling industry so thoroughly that when repeal came in 1933, nobody could remember how to make good beer. The mediocre American lager that dominated the 20th century is Prohibition’s most enduring legacy.
George Washington was, at one point, the largest whiskey distiller in America. Before that, he had some kind of career in the military and politics — but let’s not let that distract us.
Forsyth’s argument, underneath all the jokes, is serious: the way a society drinks tells you everything about it. The Greek symposium was a test of character. Medieval alehouses were the only place serfs could talk politics away from their lords. The Gin Craze was what happens when you rapidly urbanize a population with no social safety net. Every era’s drinking culture is a mirror.
It’s one of the funniest history books I’ve read, and one of the more quietly profound ones. Short enough to finish on a flight, weird enough to make you want to tell everyone about it immediately.