The January Hangover

It’s Jan 30th. Your bank account is a crime scene, but at least the dog is eating air-dried beef.

Jan 31, 2026

January is 471 days long. I’ve checked the math, and it’s a scientific fact.

By the 30th, the “New Year, New Me” optimism has been well and truly battered out of me by a combination of horizontal rain and the smell of damp Bulldog fur. We have reached the final stretch of January Purgatory. It is that grim overlap where the festive joy is a distant memory, the bank account is a crime scene, and the dog has decided that 6 AM is the ideal time to wake me up.

Before I had the dog, I was a man with a savings account. I had “diversified assets” and a Monzo pot specifically for a week in Mykonos. Now, my primary asset is a half-chewed rubber chicken and a bag of Hypoallergenic kibble that costs more than my weekly shop at Sainsbury’s.

I am currently subsidising the lifestyle of a 25kg animal who thinks a designer sofa is an acceptable place to store a half eaten yak chew. Earlier this week, I found myself standing in the kitchen, staring at a bag of “air-dried beef treats.” They cost £12. I was eating a piece of toast that was 20% crust and 80% regret. I looked at the dog, and she looked at me with that classic Bulldog underbite—a look that says, “I know you’re broke, but I still expect the good stuff.”

I’ve spent more on “skin fold wipes” and “hypoallergenic nose balm” this month than I have on my own skincare. I’m currently using a 3-in-1 shower gel I found in the back of the bathroom cupboard while Luna gets a pH-balanced bath that smells of sandalwood and expensive shame.

This is the reality of the “Dudes with Dogs” club. You start the month promising to be frugal, and you end it wondering if you can claim the dog’s “therapeutic toys” as a business expense. I am a grown man living on Pot Noodles so my dog can eat better than a Victorian orphan. We’re nearly at the finish line, lads. Payday is almost here. Just try not to check your balance until then.