Never drink alone.” It’s one of those old sayings, attributable to no one in particular (and given this excellent updated spin from Stanley Tucci: “One is never drinking alone. Someone else is always drinking somewhere”). But one bar has taken the adage rather more literally than most.
Alibi, a cocktail and karaoke bar in Greater Manchester, reportedly implemented an unusual door policy when it first opened three years ago: solo partygoers are strictly verboten. “No single entry,” reads a sign on the door. “After 9pm, Alibi does not permit single entry. If you are with guests already inside the venue, please contact them in advance of entry. This is for the safety of all guests.”
Defending the decision in a social media post, Carl Peters wrote: “If something happens to that person in a late-night, busy bar environment where people are drinking it’s an absolute nightmare for us to deal with.” He explained further that someone entering the bar alone was “immediately in a vulnerable situation”, adding: “If anything happens to someone, we’re clear, we want to know who they’re with. They fall over and bang their head. They get locked in the toilet. What have they had to drink? Because situations arise where the friend group gives you all the information that you need… If there’s no one with them, we don’t have that information.”
There’s clearly some sense to all this and, of course, Peters is at liberty to do whatever he likes. It’s his joint, after all. But there’s something about this rule, logical as it may appear at first glance, that makes me desperately sad about the state of British nightlife.
Whatever happened to the spontaneous solo adventure? The thrill of being able to walk into an unknown watering hole, your heart in your mouth, with the vain hope that maybe the beautiful strangers inside might truly be friends you haven’t met yet?
As someone who grew up on a steady diet of Sex and the City, I learned that there was nothing chicer than taking yourself for a lone cosmopolitan after a busy workday – just as I learned that it could lead to the most exciting encounters (well, it did if you were named “Samantha”, anyway). And though I’ve rarely had the confidence to pull this off on home turf, I’ve done it plenty of times while travelling.
In fact, some of my best nights out in a new city have been solo missions. It’s daunting, yes – but being a stranger in a strange land means you’re left with little choice but to put yourself out there as a party of one. It forces you to be present, to really take note of your surroundings, to smile at strangers and brazenly strike up conversations. Like the time I went out in Bilbao’s Plaza Nueva on my lonesome, nervously ordered some pintxos in terrible Spanish, and ended up sharing a bottle of wine with a very tall Dutchman, dancing with him into the early hours and picking up amigos everywhere we went.
According to Peters, solo drinkers don’t keep to themselves but “start mithering other groups – because they’re not just going to sit there in a bar having a drink on their own in silence”. Again, I’m reminded that some of the most fun nights have involved a random stranger joining my gang, adopted as one of our own for the evening.
Sure, no one wants to be letched over or harassed by a creep who won’t get the message, but that’s not been my prevailing experience. I’ve babysat loners at festivals and played Cupid to help twenty-something lads pull at all-night raves. I hate the idea that these transient, one-night-only friendships might be a thing of the past; I hate that the very notion of trying to make new connections might these days mark you out as some kind of social pariah.
I’ve babysat loners at festivals and played Cupid to help twenty-something lads pull at all-night raves
It’s even more disheartening given that we’re currently living through what has been dubbed a “loneliness epidemic” by the World Health Organisation. Young people are particularly affected; a 2024 Centre for Social Justice poll found that a third of 18 to 24-year-olds reported feeling lonely often or most of the time. Anything that further ostracises them – messaging that suggests going out without friends, perhaps in the hopes of making some, means you’re a problem, for example – doesn’t fill me with hope.
It reminds me of my stint working in a locals’ pub while at university. The majority of the clientele were middle-aged men who turned up by themselves and stayed until closing. They may have sat separately (and spent an inordinate amount of time staring solemnly into their pints), but just being in proximity to other humans made them feel plugged into a community, however makeshift or motley. They may have been drinking alone but, as Tucci identified, you’re never really drinking alone. Someone else is always drinking somewhere.
Making friends is hard enough as it is. Those who are brave enough to face the night without a socialising safety net should be applauded, not shamed.