A long time ago in a pub far away, there was a 16 year old young man, with straggly ginger hair and a gin and tonic. Yes I was a bad boy for being in the pub at my young age, a sinner if you will (and more fun if you won't, Ed) however I wasn't the greatest sinner in the pub at the time. That dubious honour was reserved for the loud obnoxious German at the bar complaining with a heavy accent about "Ze beer being peese water" (the beer being piss water, Ed). So being a cocky young lad who was rather full of himself (or full of gin, choose your own story Ed) I sidled over. I plonked my glass on the bar next to his and myself on the stool next to him.

"I notice by your accent that you are German, my name's Paul."

"Ja unt I notice by your drink and name zat you are a pouffe, I am Jurgen, vhich is a reel man's name."

It wasn't exactly love at first sight, I persevered, and he repeated his (not entirely inaccurate Ed) comments about my sexuality and then moved onto questioning my manhood in general. Things were said, accusations were made and a gauntlet thrown down.

"Fine zen nancy boy, name your game"

"Herbert, Herbert J. Pint-Race esquire"

"Even your drinking contest sounds homosexual"

So Henry behind the bar began pouring the first pint, it was a Foster's or some other shite. Before he could fill my glass I motioned to the vodka bottle and he handed it over. The German's comments on the subject went something like this:

"Oooh a vodka lemonade, my reputation vill be shattared" (typo based on his speech Ed)

"Oh a double, I fear your alcoholic tendancies"

"Half measures? Still homosexual..."

"A pint of vodka?! You are not going to be drinking zat."

But oh yes I was. So here we were, England vs Germany in the pub, Australia vs Russia in our glasses, and an Inter Milan vs Liverpool re-run on the telly, the contest to end some contests (not quite all of them but close enough to be within biting distance Ed).

3. 2. 1. GO!!!

And the vodka was sent kicking and screaming down my neck, the first mouthful burned like hells but after that the air didn't get to it so it was like drinking water (40 ABV highly flammable water Ed), to give the Kraut credit he did a dam fine job of getting his pint away but when he must have glanced out of the corner of his eye and seen the vodka doing a runner because he couldn't help but choke on a mouthful, giving me time to pack away that last drop of doom dew. (From this point on accounts vary; I shall give mine and then the general consensus of the pub Ed)

As far as I was aware three things happened. THUD, my glass hit the bar, THUD his did too, M THUNK my head hit a table.

Now everyone else got a different idea. Understandably enough I was insta-drunk, and I'm told I went on a slurred verbal rampage which went a little something like this:

"Ha! You Kraut bastard, two world wars and a drinking contest. Well I guess we know who the real man is now don't we? I'm Jurgen now and you are Georgina B. Puffypants the third, you lose good day sir." M

What we can all agree on is that after point M I fell over rather hard and KO'd myself on a table edge (you'd think the vodka would have KO'd me first Ed). I woke up in hospital with a bandage on my head, the doctors brought me in for concussion but they'd pumped my stomach for free so I didn't die of alcohol poisoning overnight. Ah, those doctors, always making sure people like me don't die. The world would be so much quieter without them.

The obvious moral of this story (every story has had to have a moral by law since the landmark case of Moralites vs Realists 1907 Ed) is that if you must insist on being a hero, at least move the furniture first.

So yeah, now you know... Or do you?