Congratulations, some of you who are reading this article, have almost made it through to the end of “Dry January.” A whole month without booze, they’ll certainly be a celebration when it’s over. Not just for you, but for the rest of your family too. They have had to endure a month of your miserable face sulking round the house, looking at all that left-over festive booze and moaning about not being able to touch a drop.

I think because we are British, this is an even greater achievement as we have a real issue with alcohol. As a comedian I often have to walk through city centres late at night and it’s like The Dawn of The Dead. There are couples screaming at each other, men trying to pick up their mates in an impromptu show of strength, people rocking back and forth in the kebab shop, hypnotised by a spinning slab of meat. Then there’s little old me, sober as Mother Teresa, trying to make it back to my car with my flask and tuna sandwiches.

Us Brits can turn any event into an excuse for a boozy doo. Wedding? have a drink, Funeral? have a drink, finished the decorating? have a drink, it’s Tuesday, have a drink. I was in an airport recently and in there is where we really go for it. It’s like we are all on some sort of perpetual stag weekend.

You never hear this conversation anywhere but in an airport:

“Dave, what time is it?”

“Ten to four in the morning”

“Do you fancy a pint?”

“Yeah, why not, we are on holiday!”

No, you’re not mate, you’ve gone nowhere, you’re still in the East Midlands. Through those automatic doors this is a drink problem, what are you doing!

Surely the last place you want to be hammered is 36,000 feet in a glorified tin can. What if you are the key passenger who has to lead everyone else to safety in the event of an incident? You’ve been drinking since 4 am, it took you an hour to open that packet of kettle chips, how are you going to cope with an emergency exit and an inflatable slide?

We don’t do this with other forms of transport. You don’t see anyone drinking cans of Kestral at 6am before getting on the 38 bus to Long Eaton? Well you do actually, sorry that’s a bad example, but to be fair if I had to drive that bus route too, I’d have a drink.

In that terminal building the rules don’t apply. It wouldn’t work at home would it? Imagine it’s the middle of the night and your partner suddenly wakes you up:

“Here, get up…..”

“What time is it?”

“Ten to four in the morning”

“Is the house on fire?”

“No, I just wondered… do you fancy a pint?”

“No…I’m asleep, what’s wrong with you, I want to dream! I don’t want to drink,”

“Come on, I’ve lined up a couple of Jager bombs on top of the dishwasher, I thought we could make a night of it!”

“I’m at work in three hours you lunatic!!”

I realised I do most of my drinking under the radar, I don’t mean laid on the runway, I mean when I’m cooking. Specifically, Sunday lunch. I am part of a section of society who the government are the most worried about. The “black ops drinkers”, the “Gin O’clock brigade” who are just as reckless but contain it in the cul-de-sac behind the bay window with the floral curtains. Apparently 84% of us drink and cook, the other 16% are probably down the pub.

I love cooking and drinking, it’s amazing. It’s like normal boozing but instead of a hangover you’re left with a slow cooked lamb shoulder and seasonal vegetables. Occasionally you have to chase the last few drinks with a shot of Gaviscon, but that’s as bad as it gets. To the outside world you’re still a diligent parent, providing a meal for your family, however in reality you’re smashing your way through that drink’s cabinet like a teenager whose parents have left them home alone for the very first time.

My night out starts at 10am on a Sunday morning, as soon as Andrew Marr says goodbye, I pour myself a sneaky glass of wine, “Thank you, Mr Marr, chin chin!” I tell everyone to get out the kitchen, I need space to create, it’s just me, my Amazon Alexa and Delia Smith.

By half twelve, I’m naked from the waste up, body shiny with meat grease, dancing around on the lino floor with a knife, I’m like Mr Blonde in Reservoir Dogs, ripping chunks of off the roast with my bare hands. I’m eating bags of crisps too because I’m hungry but too drunk to wait.

At this point my wife always comes in, “I thought you were cooking?” I shout back at her, “I am, I’m doing a red wine reduction, I started with a full bottle and now it’s nearly gone”

I start to get over confident, experimenting with flavours. “You know what this mash potato is lacking? Vanilla extract!” I’m pioneering flavour combinations even Heston Blumenthal would describe as “a bit much.”

My portion control is all over the place too “how old is she? 3?” “Yeah I reckon she’d eat a kilo of mash.” The alcohol makes you fearless, you start taking things out of the oven with no gloves, I once ended up with the Tefal logo burnt into my palm like Joe Pesci in Home Alone.

By two O’clock, I’m in the euphoric stages of the cooking binge. Most of the weeks shop has gone, I’ve got some Brillio pads browning under the grill and I’ve fried off my rubber gloves in garlic. I’ve used every single pan too, so I’m now having to boil the sprouts in a wok.

I rarely remember the meal itself, but I always think it went well. I’m often laid on the sofa, nodding in and out of consciousness, whispering sweet nothings into my Amazon Alexa. In the background I can just make out the sound of smoke alarms blaring and pans being scraped into the bin. “At least he tries to cook” says my wife to the starving children, whilst dialling the number for Domino’s, “and I reckon he’s onto something with that vanilla mash.”