I am descended from a long line of distinguished drinkers. (Please allow for a little licence – or, preferably, an off-license!) The male line, it should be said. Most functioned effectively, with falls along the way. These usually prompted comments such as: “The just man falls seven times a day.” ‘Just’, like my ancestors.

As can happen in families, a successful generation of achievers can be followed by wastrels. It is something of a mystery how, with the same apparent genes, talent and pedigree the result in one generation can be so mediocre compared with that which went before.

It is where I am. I would be something of a disappointment to those who have gone before in not nearly approaching their capacity for drink.

And, be assured, I’ve tried.

The signs were so good in my childhood. I was taking a bottle to bed with me every night until I was six, when my mother put her foot down. Admittedly the bottle was full of sweetened, warm milk. You would imagine that with such a start in life I would simply have blossomed in “the bottle” stakes thereafter.

It was not to be.

Poverty was a factor. As a student I didn’t have enough money for more than the odd drink, so a proper schedule of training was out of the question. Yes, I made valiant efforts when I secured employment later in what was then this most drink-friendly trade of journalism.

But it was on the cusp of changing, changing utterly, into something terrible. Nowadays journalists are as abstemious as nuns in an enclosed order.

In a personal effort to redeem some pride I did once drink solidly for 24 hours, though that wasn’t intended. It was a birthday party that began in Toner’s on Baggot Street in Dublin and continued at an all-night club on Leeson Street, following which we adjourned to an early house in the docks area of the city.

And I felt fine. I was convinced finally I was on a par with the very best of any of my fine ancestors. Then I died and didn’t rise for three days.

Redemption? Maybe.

Bottle, from the Middle English botel, is believed derived from the Latin buttis, meaning a cask. The phrase "on the bottle", meaning "on the drink", is believed to date from the 17th century.