I was in the pub a day or so ago, and a friend bought a fairly substantial round. I suspect he’d already had a few beers elsewhere, and a degree of tipsy bonhomie had come into play.

He decided to pay on his debit card. The sum popped up on the card reader, and mateyboy’s eyebrows popped up towards his hairline. Thirty odd quid when he’d only had two pints there is quite a lot isn’t it? Anyway, he put in his PIN, and the reader spewed out a receipt. He promptly threw this in the bin. He called it ‘Getting rid of the evidence,’ and I assume he didn’t want Mrs Mateyboy stumbling across it.

He disappeared for about an hour, then rematerialised. Because the pub accepts debit cards, it offers cashback, and he decided to avail himself of that facility. He bought a packet of peanuts, got cashback, and effectively paid £50-90 for a bag of nuts. That might be referred to as living beyond your means if you’re not a cityboy like he is.

A few weeks ago, he and some friends spent an afternoon on the lash in the pub, drinking beers with topshelf chasers. They then went home, drank 12 bottles of wine and a bottle of gin between the four of them, and finally got to bed as it was getting light.

I saw him in the pub the next lunchtime, and he looked like death warmed up. He was having a restorative pint, but it didn’t seem to be doing him any favours. He at one point completely missed his mouth, tipped beer down his back, said, ‘Mouth? That’s in the middle.’ and decided to call it a day.

I’m not condoning or glamorising this behaviour, but I do have to admire his stamina. If I’d even attempted a session like that I’d still be on life support.

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