Whether by natural inclination or because of their Methodist roots, both my parents were tee-total. The closest thing to alcohol in our house was Indian Brandee and Shloer fruit juice at Christmas time. The mysteries of ‘drink' were not known to me until I was well into my teens.

Like all pioneers, my older brother paved my way by conditioning mum and dad to the fact that their children might drink. He'd often return home with the smell of alcohol on his breath. In fact, I could relate a many an amusing story of said brother's mishaps following a session - but those are his stories to tell, not mine.

At forty, I stand at six feet three. At sixteen, I was already tall and had started shaving every other week. Ronnie, my best friend, was also pretty tall and had a rugged look to him. We were both able to buy a few tins of bitter at ‘friendly' off licences.

Ronnie's mum and dad decided to throw a party. They were members of an athletic club and most of the guests came from that circle of friends. Ronnie and his sister were allowed to invite a friend each. Hence, at seven o'clock on that Saturday evening, Ronnie and I were sat in the corner of the tap room of The Plough supping pints of best. Not one of Yorkshire's finest hostelries, but it had the attraction of turning a blind eye to tall sixteen year olds.

We had a couple of pints each and then wandered back to his house for the party. I have to be honest and say that I don't remember too much detail from here on in, but I'll do my best.

Ronnie's sister had invited a friend of hers who I liked very much. About a year later we were to become ‘an item' and remain attached for five years - but that too is another story. (That's the problem with reminiscing; one story naturally intertwines with another.) There were four of us younger ones, and while Ronnie's parents were glad to allow us to drink, they only let us have beer, and only two or three cans each.

At about ten thirty, all the adults gathered in the front room to watch a video of the London Marathon that many of them had run in the week before. To ensure we didn't drink too much, they took all the beer with them. Their near fatal mistake was to leave all the spirits behind. I was sixteen, I got stuck in. In my ignorance, I didn't understand the difference between beer and stronger stuff.

When I met Ronnie about two weeks later, he told me I'd drunk more than a bottle's worth of mixed spirits. That might explain what happened to me later that evening.

Surprisingly, I was reasonably steady on my feet; until that is, I left to go home. The fresh air was waiting to ambush me. I opened the front door, took a breath and felt like I'd been punched in the face. To his credit, Ronnie walked me the half mile home. I remember bouncing off walls and privet the whole way - except when I was vomiting on my friend's shoes - several times.

Arriving home, I shouted a quick hello to my parents and headed straight upstairs to bed to avoid having to face them. This plan worked brilliantly - up to a point. I didn't make it to my bedroom. I was discovered unconscious in a sloppy mess on the bathroom floor and didn't come round until morning.

I suppose I was lucky I didn't have to have my stomach pumped or do any serious damage to myself. My own stupidity could have killed me. I now joke that my parents take some responsibility. My knowledge of the dangers of drinking were limited to, ‘Don't do it.' Had I been a little better informed, I may have drunk a lot less - then again I may not have.

Meanwhile, Lisa and I now have two boys of our own. They are both encouraged to have the odd beer or wine. Neither really likes it, although my oldest does have a taste for Guinness and my youngest for melon schnapps. Because of our non-Methodist inclinations, I hope both of them have some understanding of the pleasures and pitfalls of drinking. I also hope they both get good jobs that enable them to keep me in beer in my dotage.