Something strange is happening to me, and I’m a little bit scared.
It all started a couple of weeks ago as I walked with a friend along Regent’s Canal. The scene was thick with portents, as in a dream. A strong wind from a clear blue sky, dead cherry blossom decaying beneath our feet. The empty carcass of a Number 8 bus on Roman Rd, taken out of service before the end of its route. I should have guessed that a part of me was about to die.

Then it happened.

Are you one of your generation’ s golden ones? Do you race ahead of the pack, a shining example to your peers of what can be achieved with the right mixture of talent and application? Or are you destined for a middle course? Or could it be that all your dreams and desires will come to nothing on the road to a sad and lonely death? It’s often so difficult to know. Well, navelgaze no longer, dear reader. For this handy guide to modern life will show you where you stand. Simply refer to your age bracket and choose the section which describes you best.

If you want a question which sums up life for generation Y, this is probably it.

How do you know if you’ve picked the right career? How do you know if you’ve got the right partner? How do you know if you’re on track for where you wanted to be? Are you one of your generation’s golden ones? Or destined for a middle course? Or could it be that all your dreams and desires will come to nothing on the road to a sad and lonely death?

A disease has infected contemporary culture in the last 15 years. Few educated British males (and it’s overwhelmingly males) between 20 and 30 have escaped. The symptoms are easily discerned: a discussion begins between two sufferers. The subject matter is wholly innocuous. All seems safe. Then, out of blue and at lighting speed, there erupts into the conversation an Alan Partridge quote, or one from David Brent.

Everyone is so used to it that it barely raises comment. But it should. It’s Friday night, the clock strikes 12, and the arguments begin. We seek it here, we seek it there, we seek the bastard everywhere. The bastard in question? A late licence pub.

Even in area well stocked with pubs, the number opening past 0100 on a Friday night are small. In Curveball’s neck of Victoria Park there are but two or three which often charge to enter. The fault lies not with them, but with the others. Licenses are available, yet they remain unused. Why? Why must we leave our cosy spot in our favourite pub to embark on a wild booze chase through the wind and rain? Is this not one of the greatest cities in all the world? And is it not full of drinkers old enough to decide their own bedtime? It will not do.

There’s a whole industry of 24 hour off licence convenience shops kept going purely by this nocturnal market. Well into the early hours the attendants sit amid yesterday’s papers and tins of unwanted goods, like sentinels in a nuclear fallout shelter. Why do these shops stay open past 0300am? On the off chance that some respectable citizen is going to pop in for some dishwasher tablets and a Wispa? No—it’s to sell drunkards and fuckheads more booze, fags, and PG Tips. What sights these shopkeepers must see each and every Friday night. What contempt they must feel for the hands which inebriatedly feed them.

The situation is nothing short of appalling. Early closing promotes binge drinking, as if promotion were necessary, because as the hour of unbooze approaches, pints and glasses are downed in preparation for moving on. No one knows where the next drink is coming from, so the temptation to double up is overwhelming. Much, much worse than drunkenness, it promotes poor conversation, because all anyone can talk about is where they might be able to get their next hit.

Some more sensible readers may balk at this point. They may feel that the problem lies not with the establishments, but with the drinkers. Stop drinking at an appropriate time, and an appropriate tipsiness, they may suggest, and the problem will melt away like ice cubes in a quadruple gin and tonic. Curveball salutes these readers’ good sense. It cannot, however, share their view. Curveball always wants another pint.

And, although it scarcely seems possible, this is about something more important than alcohol (these words are typed neither lightly nor soberly). Consider: London has claims to be the pre-eminent city on the planet. Those claims may be 100 years out of date, but they should still count for something. And yet the tube is done by 0100 every night. Nightbuses in some areas are as common as the Bullingdon club and just as vomit stained. It’s pathetic. Soho is open, admittedly, but who lives close to Soho? And who can afford to go out there? The city’s very honour is at stake.

So, as Lenin famously asked of a similarly important issue: What is to be done? Well, full-on revolutionary activity is one option, and it would be foolish to rule it out at this stage. But Curveball favours a different strategy: Non-Violent Direct Boozing.
The key weapon of Non-Violent Direct Boozing is the sit in. This Friday, or any day for that matter, it is suggested that come kicking out time, readers refuse to be kicked. Simply announce that you intend to stay. Offer the staff a well-earned drink—remember that they are victims in this as much as you. It is important that you cause no trouble, for that will diminish our cause. It is important that you continue to booze, for that will give you strength for the fight. I have a dream. I have a dream today. Come join me in making that dream a reality. JOIN ME.