Dry January: A long chore and little cheer It's amazing the difference that not drinking makes. I used to wake up in the middle of the night, and lie awake for an hour or two listening to the World Service and keeping up with foreign news. Now, I sleep all through the night and wake up early in the morning feeling fresh and exhilarated, though less well-informed. The pains in the back and wooziness around the head have gone. However, I've caught a nasty cold. I almost never get these, and relate it directly to giving up whisky, which is famous for killing germs. Teetotalism has been even harder than I expected. Not drinking over dinner, or sipping mineral water when meeting a friend in a pub, is pretty miserable. I thought I might get used to it, but I haven't. In truth it has got worse. For the first few days I was full of a sense of virtue, which made it easy. Now it's just a long, long chore. January lasts for ages, there are nearly two weeks left, and the days stretch ahead as if I was in a prison camp. I know that's a ridiculous thing to say, but that's how it feels. I've lapsed twice. The first was quite early on, at around 10.30am on Saturday January 5. A friend had invited me shooting and very kindly put me a brilliant spot for the first drive. Seven or eight birds went over my head. I am a lamentable shot, but normally I would have hoped to kill three or four. I missed them all, apart from one shamefully low one, which I should have left alone and only aimed at because I had missed all the others. The second lapse came early last week, when I went out to dinner with friends in a restaurant here in the Middle East, from where I am reporting the Israeli elections. I hadn't seen the friends for a long time, and I liked the restaurant, knew that I would be poor company without a drink, and thought what the hell. I didn't go mad, but I drank perhaps three or four glasses and felt much better for it. I have taken up smoking in the hope it will make me cope better. I don't like cigarettes nearly as much as a pint of beer or a bottle of wine, but they are better than nothing and an important support in this time of hardship. I'm hoping that I don't get too fond of them and end up with two addictions instead of one. On about the tenth night of purgatory I spoke at a debate on the future of Europe arranged by Cantor Index, spread betting company. Afterwards, drinks were served and as I chewed on my mineral water and discussed Britain and the EU with a highly intelligent German industrialist I was spotted by Nigel Farage, the leader of Ukip, who had a glass of red wine in his hand. "Going well is it?" he asked. Farage said he'd given up from time to time and found himself quite enjoying it. I know what he means. You get this occasional sense of moral clarity and loneliness of spirit. But here I am in the American Colony hotel in Jerusalem, and when I come back at the end of a long day attending the hustings and listening to Israeli politicians I don't just fancy a drink, I need a drink. Instead, I sit in the bar staring into the bottom of a glass of cranberry juice, and wondering whether this period of abstinence will ever end.