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Drinking. It’s not big and it’s not clever. But it can be lot of fun, especially when your blood alcohol level is rising. In fact, exclusively when your blood alcohol level is rising. After that, it’s pretty much all downhill.

As someone who regularly goes months without a drink these days, there’s literally nothing to be said for it. Apart from not feeling like some sort of freak at any gig/party/football match/meal out/any social gathering you care to think of because this country is absolutely pickled in the stuff.

You know what? In those months of being off the sauce, I bank two of the most precious commodities you can think of.

Money (booze is ruinously expensive), and time, because if you didn’t drink yourself into the ground the night before, then you’ve a 0 per cent chance of waking up with a life-threatening hangover that tramples its muddy boots all over one of your precious days off. Funny that, sounds blindingly obvious when you read it in print.

Weekends on the wagon are soooooo veeeeeery loooooong though. Saturday nights last around 15 hours while Sundays go on for around 72.You remember when Sundays were always boring as a kid? That’s because everything was shut and you weren’t battling a weapons-grade hangover. Imagine doing your homework at the last minute again to the sound of Songs Of Praise after spending all morning throwing up and just about keeping down that mouthful of dry white bread you gingerly swallowed at 4pm.

Being able to drive anywhere you like whenever you feel like it is pretty sweet though. Sleeping like an exhausted toddler every night and having the glowing complexion of a Hollywood starlet is a bonus too.

As a gawky, awkward teenager, the demon drink was a gateway to a social life that was previously an unattainable mystery. A couple of drinks in and I could chat to anyone. It’s the wonder drug, the special sauce that lubricates this island’s social network.

Men only express their true feelings when they’re one drink away from oblivion or they’ve been diagnosed with a terminal illness earlier that day. Apart from that, we don’t do emotions (unless you count venomous anger directed at tubby, bumptious, middle-aged football referees with their shorts pulled up so high it looks like they’ve got some sort of testicular camel toe) and maybe that’s our problem.

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Who's The Daddy: Drinking was fun, now I’d rather have a night’s sleep