But regardless of the fear of being caught, I still found enough in my fluff-laced pocket to sponser another pint. The result was that I wasn't caught, as such, but did have to endure a car-journey alive with the rattle of suspicious sniffing.

I got home, got upstairs, and that was that. Another notch on the mature-o-meter. Not simply a drink. Anyone could do that. No, I had sat in a licensed premise, in full view of any patrons therein, and purchased an alcoholic beverage.

The next time I did it I woke up in an ambulance. That event, it pains me to relate, saw many, many notches lost from the mature-o-meter, and the first of thousands on the old I'm Never Ever Ever Doing That Again-o-meter.

Some other dents on said ometer - Drinking half a pint of my own piss. Falling down stairs in full flight of those who really didn't want to see me doing falling down flights of stairs. Falling asleep in sundry bushes. Convincing a very good friend to knock me out in Londonderry. Making people I loved cry.

So something had to be done, but The Duke was fucked if he knew what.

And then, after getting engaged and going mad and being in nuthouses and so-on, I stumbled into the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, which is the AA that fixes your head, and not the one that fixes your car. Both are very near one another in the phone book.

In Part Two The Duke will reveal all that stuff about the nut-house. Maybe. If you want, like.

The Duke resides at Mondo Irlando.