"You're not drunk until you have to hold onto the floor to keep from falling off."

It was in a small side-room of a Lincoln coffee-shop, surrounded by enough books, cushions and curtains to make the driest librarian aroused and ready for an evening of erotic reading and light petting, that I first realised the ludicrousness (a truly lovely word that should be used more often) of drunkenness (another delightful word). This revelation was triggered by the many tales of a friend's antics at university, where nights in airing cupboards, punching wardens and spattering friends with projectile vomit seem an almost weekly occurrence. This is not only typical, but almost expected of the average student (who also eats pizza as an attempt to fulfill all their nutritional requirements in one go and does less work than the average estate agent) and, although I am no fan of averages, I have to admit that I think everyone I know there has at least one similar story and some far worse.

And this is a slightly worrying trend I feel. I speak not as some government official or octogenarian with little notion of the real world and problems with their bowels but as someone who enjoys the odd drink or two (or twelve...) and who has the odd story of his own; Kentucky fried chicken plastered up the back of a toilet is not one of my proudest memories. The fact that we measure the quality of a night not on, say, how brilliant the music was or the quality of the cocktails, but instead on how little we remember and how many minutes were spent on the floor, in tears or snogging a toilet is almost perverse. We frown upon self-harm and slit wrists but wear scars and bruises obtained on nights out like the war wounds of a viking war lord. Romance can take weeks, even months or years, to achieve in a sober state and still be frowned upon for being rushed but inebriation can form relationships that last a lifetime and spark peals of laughter reminiscent of a hyena choir when it is retold at family parties and prison cells.

Now I'm not saying we shouldn't drink, nor am I saying we should never get so drunk that our own belly button keeps us in stitches for hours; this would be a depressing, bleak and teal-coloured future. Because on reflection, it is the very danger, unpredictability and lack of control that accompanies drunkenness that makes it so exciting. Why do base jumpers hurl themselves of buildings with nothing but a square of fabric and a sherbet lemon to save them? Risk. Why do race drivers zoom round a track in what is effectively a tin can powered by a rocket? Risk. So why do students drink until they know they won't remember their actions the following morning when they wake up in a shopping trolley in a suburb of Wakefield? I don't think I have to say it again.

And so I'd like to make a toast to the ludicrousness of drunkenness. In a few hours I shan't be able to stand.