Judging from my experience, I’m going to be in no shape to post when I get home tonight, as I’m just about to be off to a joint leaving do and birthday party and I know it’s going to be insane. British “dos” are like nothing I’ve ever experienced in the States. Sure, we went on jags every once in a while, but they would usually be from bar to bar, peppered with appetizers, dinner, perhaps a stop at someone’s house, and it didn’t usually get sloppy until 2am when we’d inevitably be ensconced under the stalactites at NocNoc downing as many sake shots as we can stomach before last call.

But in Britain, where most pubs close at 11pm, nights out are much rougher, much more concentrated, and much more dangerous. First of all, no one bothers with dinner. Dinner is for wusses. Inevitably, at some point, someone will suggest dinner but that will lose out to the need for the next round and someone will bring back a few bags of crisps or Twiglets or peanuts and you have to grab and make do. I cannot tell you how many nights last year I ate a bag of Quavers for dinner. Quavers are not dinner.

Secondly, no one seems to care what you drink, just how much and how quickly. Tonight, for example, we’re going from a Dutch bar, to a club-type place, to a pub, and we’ll end up at a bar where they serve cocktails in pint glasses. “Beer before liquor” has no meaning here. Perhaps that’s why the city of London has just concluded a major public service campaign designed to start fining people for barfing on the street. The campaign included major bus shelter posters with “£80” written in vomit. Totally outrageous.

Thirdly, after 11pm all bets are off. That’s when it all goes to hell. Thousands of drunk gits are set loose on the streets as the pubs close, searching for someone with a late license, fighting for a cab, careening down the street singing football fight songs, or – you know – fighting with our trash. This is when you hope that you’re out with a nice boy who will put you in a cab and send you home or when you brave the bus by yourself. This is also when you hope you don’t barf on the bus (£80!) or on the cabbie (which could get you chucked out unceremoniously in the middle of Clerkenwell). Neither of which – thank GOD – I have ever done.

So yeah. Not going to be in any state tonight to post. If it's a good night at all.