Graduating to work experience at Archers Golf and Sport shop in Twickenham, I soon became aware of the culture of the drinking man as opposed to the underage drinker. One lunchtime we closed the shop and decided to go to the Eel Pie for a pint; then another pint; and another. Except this wasn’t mild or bitter or ordinary lager – this was Pils. I knew not from whence it came but I soon found out where it was going as I returned to the shop (now closed for the afternoon) and puked my stomach out while crappin my bowels out on the bog. Such a small area for such an amount of liquid. A rite of passage and my first wretch since earlier days of bleedin’ Watneys Red Barrel (about which nothing shall be said here).