My first blackout happened when I was 13 or 14 years old. It was a terrifying affair, not at the time, since I was fucked if I knew what the hell was going on, but afterwards, when feelings of joviality and reckless youthful spree's were replaced with guilt and remorse and genuine sorrow for the hurt it had caused other people. That bit was fairly crap, to be honest. But it never got less crap. It never went from being unbearable torment to being a right old time. I never woke up with the smile I went to sleep with.

Around the time of that first black-out, a few interesting things were happening in the town. One such event, was that a renowned off-licence was changing hands, so to speak. Another was that a similar popular drinking establishment was doing the same thing. What this meant for myself and company, was that these proprietors were more than willing to hand out drink to whoever the hell came to the door, regardless of age or obvious pre-pubescent status.

One night we gathered outside the latter outlet, a hotel that was in the process of being handed over to new management. One of our clan went in first, to test the water, if you will, an anxious toe dipped into the metaphorical bath-tub. I remember the rush of orgasmic joy, as that individual was reached a pint of, yes, it was definitely lager, it had foam and everything, and then took a seat for to sip, since that what's you did when you were mature. You sipped.

And sure enough, the steady leak trickled on, until we all were sat in that corner, and were all testing out our new-found deep voices for authenticity, and were all sipping, as is the wont of a mature gentleman. But my sipping was slightly more frenzied than the others. I was taking a follow-up sip before the glass had touched the table from the sip hitherto. It was really polite gulping if anything.

But I'd be fucked if I got caught, so it had to be just the one.

You learn early on in life, provided you are me, and the lessons learned all involved alcohol, and as such would then be discarded as soon as was convenient, that anything offered to "take the smell of your breath" is nothing more than the most bogus of snake-oil. I learned, through many, many bitter experiences, that nothing, not Lockets nor Throaties nor Polo's nor Fruity Polo's nor Cheeseburgers nor Cinnamons can take the stench of drunkenness from the lungs of an individual. It can't be done.

In pub toilets across the world at this very minute, 14 years olds are standing huddled in pairs, blowing onto one another's faces. Let me tell you now, these bouts of air-puffing are in vain. If they tell you they can't smell anything, then it's either because you haven't drank anything, and therefore what the fuck are you doing breathing onto his face anyway, or its because he is himself so intoxicated that even if rancid slurry were spewing from your lips he would still say, "No, all you can smell's chewing gum."