Snooze

Operation 'Drunken Snooze' was an abject failure. I guess I'm still in shock. The whole episode just doesn't seem real. How could it have happened to me? Being drunk was only thing I've ever really been good at. I put in years of training, and for what? I can't complete a simple mission to get blind and pass-out on the couch. They say a poor tradesman blames his tools. Be that as it may, I have a new nemesis - mid-strength beer.

Back in the old days the game plan was always simple. Two pints in the first half-hour, then one pint every half-hour after that. It was fool-proof - a recipe even a backpacker could follow. Get a buzz going early and build until you're slobbering and abusive - like a layer-cake of self-loathing. But if being a drunken body was a temple, this was only ever the blue print.

Then the artistry comes into play. You can't just slap an evening of physical impairment and unwanted sexual advances together. You have to craft it. Have principles. That is why I drink pints only in prime numbers. It helps you to set goals in an evening - to visualise and achieve states of inebriation though meditation and heavy drinking. Prime numbers are the way to intoxicated enlightenment.

1, 2 & 3 - They're all pretty much the same thing. They fall under the 'in for a penny' syndrome. They're the drinks you can have with someone if you have somewhere else to be, or the drinks you tolerate politely with people you don't really like that much. They're nothing drinks. You're not going to do any damage with them. Three pints is the kind of stint you might expect at a business breakfast, PTA meeting, or at half-time from the under 8's mixed netball team.

5 pints is going to give you a good solid buzz that should last you most of the drive home. If you've made it to 5 you've established that this is a 'drink'. You're not just here for a quick sip and a hat tip - the gulp and go, the drink and slink, the knock-off and fuck off. The snag, of course, being that if you've had five you'll still be at the bar for...

7. This is perhaps the most important pint. Take into account you've probably been in the bar for 3 hours now, you're officially drunk - perhaps not the best time for you to have a decision to make. But a jump lies ahead - a leap of faith. The abyss between 7 and 11 prime pints. Are you going to stay and make a proper mess of yourself or are you going to take the safe route, buy a souvlaki and go home? This leap is not to be underestimated. It's a deceivingly long stretch. Many a novice drinker has stumbled at this point and perished in the vomitous ether of no-man's-land. Only the penitent pisshead shall pass.

11 &13. You've made it this far, you're obviously good at what you do. If you can do 11, 13 is not such a stretch. These are two very good opportunities to call it a night. At this point you're BAC is around 1.03, and will clock over any breathaliser, giving a reading of a very legal .03. If you have a partner it's a great opportunity to play a game of 'let's go home and see if my dick still works'. But if you are truly dedicated - a sage of the sauce - take a deep breath and make a visit to the ATM.

17 & 19. We enter the realm of the truly talented. You are wasted at this point and the greatest challenge you face will be convincing the barkeeper to pour you another one - it's a good idea to tip well from the beginning. You'll begin to see and hear things that aren't really happening and will have forgotten them all by morning. Your friends or the police will be sure to remind you of all the things you'd rather forget. You've made it this far - why not one last ditch effort...

23. The true insight of oblivion. I, to my knowledge, have never made it to this dizzying realm - I broke my collar-bone walking home defeated somewhere around 21. Apparently 23 holds wonders untold, or wonders slurred so badly that they become incomprehensible. It is a mystical magical place, that I as a student will one day achieve.

So why, oh why, could I not execute the simple task of getting drunk on a Saturday afternoon? I set a blistering pace, right from the get-go. One can after another, barely letting the condensation... condense. I hadn't eaten anything especially to help the cause. But as my svelte figure swelled with fluid I began to feel sick. The 'reduced alcohol' beer was thin and metallic tasting. It churned my insides like a bile-flavored ice-cream soda. I'd worked up a bit of a buzz, but I felt tormented and head-achy.

My belly distended, my bladder bursting, my brain clear and reason-ready, it was pointless. I gave up. I had been beaten some damned well-intentioned regulatory board - those heartless overlords. In 5 short weeks I will once again taste the sweet bitter tang of a Carlton Draught. That said, I'm trying to get drunk again now. Perhaps I will build up an immunity to this caustic and insipid brew - or get bloated and miserable trying!