IN the days of the Temperance Movement, you signed a pledge forswearing “distilled, fermented and malt liquors, including wine, beer and cider” – no specific mention of After Shock or Mad Dog 20/20 note – and then went to a cold church hall to be hectored by a posh woman in a hat who looked as much like Jean Simmons in Guys And Dolls as I do Marlon Brando in the same film. Or in any other film for that matter. Except the ones where he's old and fat and in a bad mood.

Today, temperance has a different look though the intention is the same: you download an app – Dry January is just one of many – and let it prey on your conscience instead. Of course now we're more worried about our wallets and our waistlines than our chances of not burning in hellfire for the rest of eternity, so as we plough through our booze-less weekends and cheerless after-work get-togethers this updated, 21st century temperance pledge will throw up encouraging messages. Such as: “£30 saved”, “500 calories reduced”, “Try a blueberry smoothie” or (my favourite): “Your liver is thankful.” There's probably one that says: “Imagine how much more bearable Christmas with the in-laws would be if you weren't blootered all the time”, but if there is I haven't found it yet.

Some are calling this January temperance movement “a Dryathlon”, which makes those taking part either “Dryathletes” or drug cheats, depending on their ability to stay on the bandwagon.

Hang on, though, it isn't just booze we're being asked to throw over. Something called the Veganuary campaign is asking people to sign a pledge saying they'll give up meat, fish, dairy, eggs and even honey. I'm guessing vegetarian haggis is OK, but Burns Night isn't going to be much fun without a dram or three is it? I'm as devoted to the idea of better public health as anyone else, but life's too short to spend it eating nuts and looking forward to a hard-earned blueberry smoothie once the kids are in bed – and January is way too long.

COME to think of it, perhaps we should just forget abstemiousness entirely and make January the time we throw caution (and the English language) to the wind and fix any old word onto the month in order to promote something.

I'll start: how about we launch Dabuary, a month-long jamboree of dabbing which, as any school-age child will tell you, is a move in which you quickly lower your head into the crook of one arm while stretching the other arm upwards. As any school-age child will also tell you – I know, I've asked several recently – nobody has any idea who started the craze. Or where. Or why. A Wikipedia entry on it says the where was Atlanta and lays the who at the feet of someone called Skippa Da Flippa. But that's probably just those pesky Russian hackers having a laugh again.

Some early celebrity dabbers you can find on YouTube include Cam Newton, LeBron James and Prince Harry, respectively an overpaid NFL quarterback, an overpaid NBA forward and an overpaid, er, what does he do exactly?

But the most recent celebrity dabber of note wasn't famous at all before dabbing himself to international prominence (and a telling off from his dad) at a ceremony at the House of Representatives in Washington. He is 17-year-old Cal Marshall, whose father Roger was being sworn in as a congressman for Kansas last week and who took the opportunity offered by the presence of TV cameras and journalists to try a cheeky dab behind the back of Speaker Paul Ryan. Bad move. “Can you put your hand down?” snapped Ryan. “Were you going to sneeze, is that it?”. Still, everyone laughed about it afterwards. Except Cal Marshall, who was grounded.

“I've still no idea what a dab is,” Ryan tweeted later. Someone tweet him back and tell him Skippa Da Flippa will be in touch.

SO, will Donald Trump's 10-year-old mini-me Barron pick up the baton and drop a dab into his father's inauguration ceremony in 12 days time? We need something to laugh at because the way things are going there isn't going to be much else in the way of entertainment.

Barack Obama's two inaugurations featured performances by Beyonce and Aretha Franklin among others. So far Trump's only confirmed guests are the Mormon Tabernacle Choir; a 16-year-old former America's Got Talent contestant called Jackie Evancho whose most recent album, Someday At Christmas, stalled at 93 in the Billboard chart; The Rockettes, a precision dance company from St Louis; and (possibly) British singer Rebecca Ferguson, a former X Factor contestant who has gamely offered to perform if The Donald lets her sing Strange Fruit, the blisteringly powerful anti-racism song made famous by Billie Holiday. Which is unlikely given his thoughts on Mexicans and Muslims.

But even the confirmed bookings haven't been controversy-free. One member of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Jan Chamberlin, resigned because she thought “it will appear that Choir is endorsing tyranny and fascism by singing for this man”. Ouch! There's mutiny in the Rockette ranks too. “I wouldn't feel comfortable standing near a man like that in our costumes,” one dancer wrote in an email seen by Marie Claire. And no, she wasn't talking about Paul Ryan.

Then again, let's hope somebody does come forward to perform because with every knockback the prospect of an hour-long set by Trump-loving rocker Ted Nugent looms larger – and that's something the world needs even less than a Dry January.

IMMEDIATELY after being anointed with holy water at my christening, I projectile-vomited all over my dad's best suit. I always assumed it meant I was the Anti-Christ, though on reflection it was probably just reflux or a dodgy pint of formula.

I recount the story because, 50 years on, the same place of worship will soon witness another uncanny event. It is Edinburgh's Barclay Church and on March 4 it will host something called Quickfire Scotland, a men-only day comprising a series of TED-style talks on subjects such as pornography, gambling and, er, sheds. Klaxons will sound to tell speakers when to shut up, and audience members will be armed with NERF guns to use on anybody who's starting to get boring. Oh, and there's a hog roast too.

“We have lined up some great speakers to speak about a whole variety of subjects, some of which we don’t hear too much about in church,” said Church of Scotland policy officer Murdo Macdonald, quoted in The Sun. “Whilst dealing with some serious topics there will be plenty of fun as the speakers avoid running over time and being fired upon.”

Sundays are looking up, no?