I was not, of course, foolish enough to let them know. I ordered my oven-baked artisan bread with aged balsamic glaze as if I was an ordinary punter with a Land Rover Defender parked outside, casually throwing in ‘oh, and a bottle of the Chenin Blanc’.

They brought two glasses. I contrived the impression my companion would be joining me shortly, and that I was only perusing the menu until then. When the waitress returned, with half the bottle gone, I suavely ordered a second while enquiring about gluten-free options.

On my way to the gents – humorously marked with a stag’s head – I popped between the men in Barbour jackets and called for three pints of Wye Valley Butty Bach and a double vodka Red Bull, rolling my eyes at the latter as if it was for a son down from Oxford.

So by the time they realised I had no intention of ordering the pan-seared cutlet of Herefordshire pork, I was already 12 units to the good with more to go. And that’s when I began seriously drinking.

I cleared the wine. I necked the pints. I considered the vodka Red Bull an amuse bouche before the main course of a full-bodied Châteauneuf-du-Pape. There I was, seated alone amid a sea of families in Hunter wellingtons, pissed as arseholes.

They tried to stop serving me. I threatened to make a scene, right there under their original oak beams dating from 1503, and they soon shut up and brought my champagne. A round of cognacs later and I staggered out, unable to clearly see.

I had done it. I had used a pub for its actual British purpose, not to eat a load of poncey food while being looked at by a chocolate Labrador. Yes, I was six miles from the nearest bus route with no taxis until next Wednesday, but f**k it, I’ll sleep in a hedge.

Awkward conversation

The talking used to take care of itself as the pints went down. Now it’s just you on the Stella because he’s moved on as, it seems, has any spark of interest he once held. Nod sagely as he waffles about work, his kids’ educational prospects, and how much better off he is physically and financially now he’s off the booze. Take frequent sips.

Time crawling by

It feels like he’s been detailing how his garden office is set up for hours. How can it only be minutes? Why did you arrange to meet so early? To give you more drinking time. At least three hours lie ahead and it’s only going to get harder. Finally you understand how women feel on dates.

Making a pint last an hour

Not drinking isn’t an option, but nor will getting drunk help. Nothing worse than being hammered while a man who used to party explains how he trained for a charity bike ride. And he’s judging you for every pint, so you’ve got to draw it out. It’s been an hour, you’re only halfway down it and you’re actually getting thirstier.

Try and remember something to tell him

What have you done since 2019? Well, there was… lockdown… you got an air-fryer… Christ, your life can’t be this uneventful. If you were both drunk incidents would be flying out, but now he’s given up the sauce and, coincidentally, become unbearably dull you can’t think of anything he would consider news. ‘We’re thinking of getting solar panels,’ you slur.

Think of excuses to leave

Got work in the morning? No, it’s a Friday night. Feeling ill? He may question why you’re already on your fifth pint. Need to relieve the babysitter? No, you already told him your wife’s looking after the kids in return for a good bottle of Merlot. You can’t think of anything. Maybe another drink will help.

Get dragged for a curry

‘Pubs bore me,’ says the man who’s failed to understand the reason they exist, and so he suggests a curry. And now you’re in an environment where most people are sober it becomes apparent how smashed you are. Beating yourself to death with the poppadum tray will be a long and difficult process but you’re out of options.

With the happy summer days of smoking in the beer garden falling away, the patrons of The Bear’s Head are instead tucking traditional snus under their upper lips like sophisticated Danes who know what truly matters in life.

Landlord Martin Bishop says: “Vaping inside is acceptable for the regulars on weeknights, but it drives the families away. Whereas nobody can tell when you’re getting your filthy fix from between lip and gum until it’s discarded in the pisser. Makes for a nicer atmosphere.

“I was a bit wary of those circular trays that look like Laughing Cow cheese but I realised they grant a certain koselig to the place. A warm Scandinavian charm.

“And for me, leaving the urine-soaked snus there is a wonderful reminder that all smoking alternatives are welcome here, whether you’re a pretentious twat in a Nordic jumper or an old-school disposable vaper.

“We want to create an environment where everyone can take depressives together, forcing them to buy a shitload of pints to keep us afloat until Christmas.”

James Bates, aged 25, says: “I can feed my addiction for hours without the shame of hitting a blunt behind that shed. The Scandis have basically made nicotine dependency cool and acceptable. It’s good to see our pub culture moving with them.”

Find suitable locations

In Munich, the festival occupies every park with hundreds of benches and marquees hosting seven million a year. In your town? There’s Lidl car park and the primary school’s sports field which will be free over half-term. Hire the latter, but do not be persuaded to give free drinks to teachers. You have no conception of how much teachers drink.

Get permission

To serve alcohol a license must be obtained from the local council, and law enforcement informed. Clear both in advance with an evening buying G&Ts at the local golf club. Though you may struggle to get approval from the parish council after a previous dispute over planning permission concluded with you keying the leader’s car.

Contact breweries

No Oktoberfest can take place without enormous quantities of warm, pissy beer, just as the Germans like it. Ignore local microbreweries and their homebrewed turnip IPAs and go straight to the source: a brewing giant willing to sell you whatever gassy lager isn’t even good enough to be sold as Aldi’s Galahad brand.

Source stodge

The Bavarian palate is not a refined one, so the food provided needs only to be able to absorb alcohol. Meat, potatoes and stale bread will pretty much cover it. Partner up with a local prison and ask which meal is best for sending convicts into a stupefied coma, and serve large portions of that. Constipation saves on Portaloos.

Recruit staff

Oktoberfest waitresses take ten per cent of the beer they sell, are blonde, heavily built enough to carry 30 steins at once and have big boobs. Pop by any local rugby club and ask who’s up for dressing as women in pigtails and braided crowns. All will volunteer; pick those you consider sexy. No judgement.

Provide entertainment

Presuming your village isn’t harbouring a secret Nazi fugitive and his oompah band, you’ll need music. The X-Factor tryout from the local pub or the Status Quo tribute act may be too classy. Instead stream classic German hits 99 Luftballons, Wind of Change and Girl You Know It’s True through a Bluetooth speaker.

Hope it doesn’t piss down

You’ve done your very best to make sitting outside while getting wrecked seem like an exotic activity. All you need now is decent weather so your gathering of pissheads stays put long enough to make money. Also, do watch out for moustached men with monorchism trying to incite drinkers into a fascist revolution. It’s been a problem.

Thanks to its generous selection of interchangably inoffensive IPAs that cost the best part of a tenner, The Robin Hood in Bristol is the go-to pub for anyone keen to congratulate themselves for their discerning taste while not being challenged at all.

Barman Ryan Whittaker said: “Don’t let varied names like Laser Juice or Indignation overwhelm you. The greatest sommelier in the world couldn’t tell the difference.

“We’ve got the Bedminster Swig, that’s a summery, hoppy IPA. Or there’s the Harbourside Gull, which is more of a light, crisp IPA. Don’t like the sound of them? There are a dozen more I can describe with adjectives just as meaningless.

“The Clock Tower is our bestseller. It’s just as bland as the others, but it’s a shade darker so you can trick your brain into thinking you’re having a proper pint. You get pissed with your eyes, after all.

“Oh, these taps with other drinks that you actually want? We’re out of those and always will be, but we don’t turn their signs around because we like to build your hopes up.”

Punter Martin Bishop said: “Absolute piss take. They’re taking advantage of the fact that I’m here now and I can’t be arsed to find another pub.”

18-year-olds are flooding the bars and clubs of university towns to numb the pain of forking out 20 thousand pounds for a degree which is disregarded by employers and means they will never buy a house.

Fresher Jack Browne said: “To outsiders it seems we’re overindulging on our first taste of adult freedom, but behind the Jägerbombs and dirty pints is a howling existential angst.

“I’ve only done an afternoon of induction bollocks but I’m already Student Loans’ bitch for decades. If you were paying seven per cent interest on top of your tuition fees, plus a maintenance loan, you’d be getting hammered every night too.

“I wish we were getting shitfaced for the fun of it like those flush idiots doing apprenticeships. Instead we’re knocking back pitchers as an act of therapy. If you see me passed out don’t be concerned, I’ve made a breakthrough.

“Though all the wild hookups are purely for fun. The lazy, workshy student stereotypes are onto something when it comes to that.”

Student Emma Bradford said: “The worst part of the hangover is when you remember you’re doing an arts degree.”

New surveys showing younger adults routinely shun alcohol has left older, wiser imbibers wondering how society is expected to stagger on without a solid core of pissheads.

Drinker Thomas Logan said: “First of all, who’ll keep the nightlife going? Because you’re not going to keep bars profitable on mocktails and microdosing.

“Second, there’s the knock-on effect on kebab shops, social smoking and public urination. When all the late-night chicken places close, leaving our high street even more denuded, that’s on you.

“Key questions like who’ll keep pubs open, who’ll slump in front of the telly at 11pm half-watching whatever shite film the BBC’s put on, and who’ll get the next round in also need to be answered by those younger ones. Especially that last, I’m empty here.”

28-year-old Josh Hudson said: “Weirdly, it might be because our parents, bosses and supposed mentors are so resolutely drunk that puts us off a lifetime of slurred intoxication.

“You keep drinking, though. Don’t listen to the medical advice. Shhh. You have another single malt and die nice and early leaving us your houses.”

Good morning. As you are no doubt aware, and haven’t only just begun to pay attention to, the UK is covered by a four-tier alert system. And for each of those tiers, a certain level of lager-based hydration is recommended.

A Green health alert is for summer preparedness. The risk is minimal, but nonetheless be ready for lunchtime drinking sessions, keep an eight-pack of Red Stripe chilled at home and weekends may see you drink up to ten pints while wearing a bucket hat.

A Yellow alert means watchfulness, especially for those with medical conditions such as lager deficiency, sweating heavily or a driving ban. If you are affected, plan ahead by doing a run to the supermarket and storing six crates of Stella in a dark, quiet garage.

The Amber alert we are currently experiencing has an impact across all areas of sobriety. Lunchtime drinking is mandatory, especially for homeworkers who are too often the silent victims of heatwaves. Refuse to allow them in meetings until they have cracked a can.

After-work drinking is recommended, in order to absorb the heat stress of the commute, and all social stigma attached to urinating in a bottle on the Manchester-Stockport train is temporarily lifted.

Once home, anyone with a garden or balcony is required to set up there for the night. Approximately 500ml of lager should be taken every 30 minutes, as if there were football on. Maintain a respectful level of intoxication until at least sunset for your own safety.

A Red heat health alert, which is yet to happen, would indicate a significant risk to life even for the healthily lagered-up. An 8am Special Brew would be issued by the government and an information campaign encouraging drinking alone launched.

Thankfully, we remain on Amber. So spend these next few days drinking an average of 12 to 24 lagers per day and you should be fine. And, if you can, try to enjoy it.

Pints that cost more than a fiver

A fiver should be the upper limit for the most swanky of London watering holes. For the rest of the country, a nice round £2.50 will suffice. The prices should be clearly marked too, to put an end to the heart-stopping terror of buying three pints and somehow owing £17. There’s no legal reason some glasses of watery hops should cost that much.

Creepy old guys in the corner

Indecipherable weirdos drinking in the corner by themselves are an institution of British pubs. Just like smoking though, it’s time these outdated relics were left in the past. Facebook petitions will try to bring back slurring creeps who hit on your girlfriend, but everyone else will wonder why they were ever tolerated. They’ll be allowed in beer gardens, as a compromise.

Queuing for the bar

Orderly queues of people waiting to be served make sense at the supermarket or the Jobcentre. They take up too much space in pubs though, and make everyone in line look like a twat. A crowded bar is also one of the last places to meet people who want to punch you simply because you nudged their elbow. You don’t get that sort of charming camaraderie standing in a row.

Self-righteous smartphone bans

Put simply, pubs shouldn’t lose their shit if you quickly scroll on your phone when your mate’s gone for a piss. That’s perfectly normal behaviour. Staring off into the distance due to having no distractions makes you look like a psycho, and leaves your brain vulnerable to terrible drunken ideas like ‘I should start a podcast’.

Barmaids that don’t pretend to fancy you

Everyone knows hot barmaids probably have a boyfriend waiting for them at home. But when they flirt with you over your choice of bar snack, for a brief moment you’re allowed to dream. Female pub staff should incur a hefty fine if they don’t give a cheeky wink when pulling a pint, or be sent on a special training course where they learn how to hand over a packet of pork scratchings seductively.

The Casual Head Nod

Gaze at your empty glass, then him, then the bar, before giving a gentle nod in that direction. If he asks what you’re looking at, simply reply ‘Your future, mate’. If he still doesn’t get it, point out the bar again, asking if he needs you to mark it on Apple Maps.

The Phantom Wallet Search

Pat your own pockets theatrically before saying ‘Thank God it’s your round because I’ve left my…’ and trail off. Gauge his reaction. Like David Attenborough filming a rare woodland stoat, you’ve startled the round-dodger into revealing his natural defence mechanisms. Namely, staring at the floor, checking his phone or suddenly needing a piss.

Buy Everyone Else a Drink

Return with fresh pints for everyone except him. When he asks where his is, smile warmly and say that that buying him one would only confuse him further about how rounds work. Add ‘You need to master the basics before we move on to advanced round-buying,’ and ask it he’s considered evening classes.

The Public Service Announcement

Raise your empty glass and loudly ask if anyone else wants one. Watch him stare into the middle distance as if pretending not to understand English will save him thirty quid. Then, scratch frantically at your throat, pretending to die of thirst. Saying you fancy a drink isn’t sufficient as the scumbag will respond that he’s ‘alright actually, thanks’.

The Barman Assist

Catch the bartender’s eye and when he asks ‘who’s next?’ point to your friend and his sealed wallet. He’ll already have noticed and, like any decent server of alcohol, considers it a personal insult to civilisation. And his livelihood. Round-avoiders are the only customers publicans despise more than those who order mocktails at peak times.

The Nuclear Option

Pick him up bodily and drag him to the f**king bar. Hold his phone up to his face until it unlocks, then complete the transaction before his flight instinct kicks in. Hold him there even if it does. This is male bonding.

I READ Keir Starmer is allowing pubs to open until 5am on Monday morning to show the England game. Am I extending my hours? Am I f**k. 

And not just because it’s Starmer’s idea, though that’s reason enough. It’s because I’m not playing nursemaid to a load of pissed-up dickheads who throw their pints whenever Harry Kane gets one chalked off by VAR.

Want more reasons? First of all, half of them won’t turn up. Everyone’s all ‘see you here tomorrow!’ on Saturday night then Sunday night can’t be arsed and stays home with a crate of Carling. I’m not paying bar staff double time to look a twat.

Second, they’ve not got the stamina. I know my drinkers. Even if they pace themselves they’ll be dozing off by half-12, and that’s before England start playing which given their games so far isn’t going to help.

Third? I mean, blame the altitude in advance and all that, but we’re hardly going to win, are we? And that’s not conducive to selling booze. They’ll still be sipping the same Stella they’ve bought at kick-off at full-time.

And what’s with this f**king 5am bollocks? The game’s over by 3am. What, everyone’s sticking around for two hours of post-match analysis after we’ve been knocked out, are we? With work in the morning?

No, I’ll be closing at half-ten as usual, as will everywhere else. Though my brother Graham’s keeping his open for the full whack and expecting brisk business, especially from 3am onwards. His pub’s in Glasgow.

A study of the UK’s trains, from rural routes to commuter trains, shows that once eight or more units of alcohol have been consumed it becomes a magical ride of stimulating new destinations, mysterious announcements and meetings with strangers.

Professor Henry Brubaker, of the Institute for Studies, said: “There’s nothing wrong with our overpriced, antiquated rail network that can’t be fixed by the warm fuzziness of aluminium-wrapped alcohol.

“Once lightly pissed, being in a long box fired randomly across the countryside becomes a mellow experience. Your slumped face can vibrate against the windows in a happy haze, just as the Victorians intended when they built them whacked-out on laudanum.

“Stations drift past cheerfully. The couple you’re unwillingly sharing a table with become fascinating. Even the toilets are fine when you’re urinating as freely and erratically as all their previous users.

“Whether the night train to Aberdeen, the 4.35pm to Didcot Parkway or a 6.30am commuter train into Liverpool Street, it’s just like mother said: booze is best.”

Market analyst Helen Archer said: “I drank a bottle of prosecco on the way to work in Leeds and woke up in Llanelli. So same as normal, but with prosecco.”

Nikki Hollis, stenographer: “Aw, imagine how cute that would be. Their innocent little intoxicated faces.”

Carolyn Ryan, shipping consultant: “We know drinking from 13 was fine, as evidenced by the 1970s. So let’s begin there and move slowly backwards.”

Steve Malley, divorce promotions officer: “I wouldn’t sell them liquor. Unless they’d recently been dumped by their year seven girlfriend in which case I’d serve them neat whisky while they unburdened themselves to me late into the night.”

Norman Steele, toy reseller: “I’m 59, was at a city centre bar yesterday, and I promise you kids already f**king have their own pubs.”

Helen Archer, lecturer: “We’ll make sure no BBC presenters are drinking in them, right?”

Ireland’s fraught past of Celtic settlement, British rule, famine and rebellion is being saluted in the time-honoured way by putting away multiple Guinnesses in a bar that has briefly hung up some shamrocks.

Oliver O’Connor of Cork said: “You’d think it would be impossible to sum up everything from the Battle of Clontarf to the Good Friday Agreement in one delicious symbol. Think again.

“The good bartenders of Wetherspoon’s have handled the challenge of representing Ireland with utmost solemnity by asking me ‘what’s the craic’ as they pour my pint. They even had a go at the accent and drew a… shape in the foam. Talk about respectful.”

Dubliner Susan Traherne said: “I needn’t have worried that Saint Patrick’s Day would be alienating for English people. If anything you Sasanaigh have shown me how to mark the occasion properly by getting shitfaced on stout.

“Here I was, missing the point by going on parades and dancing at a céilithe. How embarrassing. I hope I don’t offend you by following your customs of wearing a Guinness hat and downing eight pints.”

She added: “Just look at all those lads passed out on the street in solemn remembrance of the long fight for home rule. Brings a tear to your eye.”

Booze-lover Martin Bishop has calculated that between lengthy stints of going to work and being asleep, he is never more than eight hours from being able to indulge in a crisp, tasty pint of lovely beer.

He said: “It sounds like one of those unbelievable facts, like how space is only 62 miles away. But it’s true for all of us, unless you’re teetotal.

“Think about it. If you have a drink before you go to bed, you’re just eight hours away from your next sip. And that’s only if you don’t get up in the middle of the night for a cheeky top up after going for a wee.

“According to HR I can’t drink at work, but there’s nothing stopping me from having a cheeky swig in the car park at 8:59. Then it’s simply a case of watching the clock count down to pub time. If I get really desperate I can usually get away with a half during lunch.

“Long-haul flights aren’t a problem thanks to the drinks trolley. I can’t see myself having to wait more than eight hours unless I get stranded on a desert island or there’s prohibition. Even then I reckon I could figure something out.”

He added: “It’s little babies I feel sorry for. They have to wait 18 years, or if they’re cool, 11.”

Have seven pints on your lunch break

The occasional lunchtime pint to take the edge off an afternoon of emails no longer suffices. If you truly believe the pub is core to British identity, you must neck 112 fluid ounces on a daily basis. Skip lunch. Yes, you may lose your job as you stagger back into the office urinating freely, but no war is without sacrifice.

Pay London prices everywhere

London has shouldered the burden of overcharging for too long. You have a duty to help carry the load by handing over a tenner for a half of Tennent’s Light the next time you’re in a Wetherspoons in Mansfield. If you are in a London pub, voluntarily double its already extortionate prices. Or do you want it to become a community centre for the elderly?

Max out your overdraft on snacks

Pubs desperately need a cash injection to help pay Reeves’s evil new business rates. Restricting your diet to bar snacks only is a start. Can man live on chilli crisps, scampi fries and pickled eggs if washed down with enough lager? You’re about to find out.

Order rounds by yourself at the weekend

Just as you saved Britain by eating out during the pandemic, you must change your drinking habits for these desperate times. By returning with four pints, a large white wine, a rum and coke and sambuca shots from every trip to the bar you’re not only supporting pubs, you’re making yourself seem popular. A statue will be erected to you in Trafalgar Square.

Donate your family

The situation is so dire that Britain needs to be on a total pub footing. This means you need to raid your home for any partners and children who could be repurposed to aid your noble cause. Pile them up in the street, and the government will come along and turn them into bar stools, beer taps and vitally-needed fruit machines.