Getting drunk, getting pissed, scammered, doing a bunk, hammered, liquid conviviality, beer, the price of, golden glass, hand to mouth, the ascendancy of man, the descent of man on the day after. I got drunk on Sunday, the glass was filled and refilled, the words increased in the speed in which they came out of my mouth, connections in conversation where made and then discarded as quickly as they came, and the glass was raised to my mouth once again. Not a bad, not a good thing, just got drunk — went home and slept it off, caused no trouble, might have looked a bit goofy as I talked and talked, and next morning felt dry and reflected the gloominess of an Easter Monday that had the feel of what I would imagine to be a Sunday afternoon in the 1950s. So I suppose there are degrees of getting drunk: fighting drunk, maudlin drunk, gobby drunk, pushy drunk, falling down drunk, connoisseur-like drunk, but getting drunk is what I did. Nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to be proud of, beer all the way and a moment when I realised that I had had enough (about 10pm if I recall). Getting drunk can be fun, if you go about it the right way, and it always makes me smile when I see beer writers and brewers, straight face, poker faced, face the camera, or splash their words in print, about sensible drinking, when I know, that I know, I have seen them getting drunk. And getting drunk, sometimes, is an act of resistance, a piece de resistance, a call to arms, the way to go, and all the while treading the boards of the theatre that we call the pub.