As we become ever more steeped in Protestant guilt over the next week or so, each additional glass of wine swelling the self-loathing, redemption is in sight. New Year’s Day looms in all its stark innocence, symbolising enforced abstinence, a return to purity and, for a few weeks at least, the weight of our sinfulness will be lifted. Only then, as we all know, around 7 January, when virtue becomes boring, a friend offers us a glass, we accept, and the whole contorted mindset starts again. There is a single explanation for Britain’s problem with alcohol: we think it’s naughty. Why that theatrical pause before accepting a drink? The bitten bottom lip and, ‘Well I shouldn’t . . .’? For the pure delight of giving in.