Let's drink to to the Temperance Movement

So I’ve given up alcohol.

It’s OK, don’t panic – your bookmarks haven’t redirected you to someone else’s Blog, this is still me talking. And I haven’t taken a pledge or joined AA or anything like that. Note to British readers – that’s not the Automobile Association but ‘Alcoholics Anonymous’ – a place where you can get drunk and nobody knows who you are. (Baddaboom tssshhh! Thank you, I’ll be here all week; don’t forget to tip your waitress.) No, it’s nothing so nefarious, or so permanent. I’m just taking a break that’s all.

I do it once a year, usually about this time. I simply give my liver and kidneys a bit of a holiday from the trials they suffer the rest of the year let them have a month off. This is a fairly recent act of virtue and I’ve only been doing it for the last seven or eight years. I’m old and tired these days and have no desire to recreate the kind of Bacchanalian excesses to which I subjected myself twenty years ago. Plus it’s a whole lot easier to live a life of quiet sobriety as a middle-aged guy then it was back when I had energy.

However, I don’t intend to turn this Gunsmoke File into a boast about how much I used to drink. I’m much too mature for that and besides, I learned a while back that it doesn’t impress girls as much as I thought. Instead I want to record for posterity, all that I can recall of the legendary night Roy, Tommy and yours truly sank half a pint in every pub in town.

There were 32 in all, ranging from Plastic Poseur’s Palaces to the linoleum floored drinking dens frequented by elderly gents playing dominoes. (Even as a young man I preferred the latter as the beer was invariably superior, as well as being cheaper.) The town center comprised of a fairly small area, 2 miles or so long and about a mile wide, with almost every pub being located within shouting distance of another, sometimes literally across the street. No, distance wasn’t our challenge – that came from the licensing laws.

I understand Britain’s drinking laws are more relaxed these days but as late as the 1980’s, they were based on a set of arcane codes put into place to keep the factory workers semi-sober during the First World War. Simply put, British pubs were required to close between the hours of 3pm and 6pm, then again at 11pm. Night’s end varied from town to town, but that was the gist of it. In those days our town had no night clubs so at 11, you were done for the evening whether you wanted to be or not.

So. 5 Hours, 300 minutes, 32 drinks, a shade over 9 minutes per pub. That included getting to the bar, ordering, being served, chugging the drink and on the next place. Dead easy.

We had our route carefully planned out. It was important we finish at the White Hart in the center of town because that’s where everyone ended their Saturday night and what was the point of doing this without witnesses? That meant a section in the middle where we’d to race about 1/2 a mile to the edge of town, before working our way back. No problem; we calculated this into the schedule. What we didn’t plan for was that the FA Cup soccer final being played that day, would be one of the most exciting in years and would go into extra time. I was watching it at Roy’s house and we had to run all the way to the first pub. We needn’t have; they opened 6 minutes late.

No matter. Half pints are easy to drink, particularly early on and in no time we were back on track. We even had time for a quick game of pool in the Oddfellow’s Arms although we had to bend the rules somewhat to keep things moving. I was official timekeeper and had to keep reminding Roy and Tommy that this wasn’t a night for savoring the subtle nuances of the ale, or in-depth philosophical discussion – we had an objective. My nagging meant that by 8:30, we were at the Ring O’Bells and exactly on target. It was a curious feeling to be chatting to friends who were just beginning their night out while we were already well on the way to being sozzled.

We were almost thrown for a loop when we rolled up at The New Inn to find a notice on the door proclaiming them closed for renovations. Nobody had told us this and it cast a serious doubt on the integrity of our mission. Our target was 32 pubs, not 31. Fortunately, the day was saved when noticed that a restaurant across the street had a drinks license. That would do, so in moments we were ensconced at a linen clothed table quaffing our half pints while the bemused diners looked down their noses.

Things started to unravel a bit when we faced the last geographical challenge of the night; The Rifleman’s Arms, situated at the top of a loooooooong hill. We were up to drink 25 or thereabouts and were each feeling less than Olympian. By the time I bellied up to the bar, Tommy was a hundred yards back with Roy even further behind and both blowing hard. I was done with my drink and on my way out the door when Roy finally arrived. "Izzon the bar" I mumbled, pushing my way past him. Then I sprinted, sprinted down the hill to the next target.

I have to confess, things got a little hazy after that. For a spell we thought we’d forgotten the Kendal Hotel altogether but fortunately people we know saw us in there. And Roy has no recollection of swiping the ashtray from The Angel (he’s a non-smoker) although it was in his jacket pocket at the end of the night. But I do remember elbowing my way through the press of bodies in the White Hart arriving at the bar moments before the landlord called ‘Last Orders’ and beating him to the punch by crying triumphantly “Three half pints of bitter please!”

The Guinness Book of Records never expressed any interest in our feat. And there are no plaques or photos on display to commemorate it. And the hangover was a doozy. But even so – we drank half a pint in every pub in town, in one night.

And while others may have tried, as far as I know we’re the only ones that ever did.