Of Pots and Pints

The worst thing about not having regular internet access is that so many stories come and go, with out me writing them down. By the time I get onto the internet the story has become so vague as to not merit telling. So today, I will only tell the lessons learnt - I hope - from the night before.

I am not a big drinker. I neither profess to be nor aim to be. I enjoy a tipple and probably only really get drunk four times a year. At most. I do this be keeping an eye on the amount that I drink and I drink beer so that I get physically full before I get too out of hand. I know that I can drive after two pots of beer. I get merry after four beers. I get vocal at six beers. I get a little roudy at eight beers. After that it just becomes a matter of degrees of loudness until I start losing full motor control at twelve beers. I can't remember the last time I had more than twleve pots of beer in a night.

But as we know, beer is not served in pots (275 mL) in England. No ... it is served in pints (600 mL). But I have not done the conversion in my head yet. So I am still using my counting system.

So last night I went for after work drinks. I had two pints without them touching the sides (which is just over four pots). I imagine that I had about 6-7 pints and a shot of something or other. That is somewhere between 12 and 15 pots and a shot. I got home at about 2am this morning Mel was almost certain I was going to have a heave in the bed. For the record, I did not. I do not know how loud I would have gotten last night (though I am sure I will be told throughout Monday ...), but I was certainly feeling sick and sorry this morning.

The lesson, then, is that a man not only has to know his limitations (as per Dirty Harry), but he also needs to know the rate of exchange. In all things.