THE KICKER:WHEN I THINK of London I think of alcohol, and how the opportunity to consume it is snatched thirstily at every moment, and in every place and position, writes John Butler.
There is the office worker on the tube on Friday at 5pm, standing in the middle of the packed, hot, dirty carriage wearing a suit, holding the rail above him with his left hand and in his right, in a brown paper bag, a can of Carlsberg Export. As the train barrels through a tunnel, he brings the can to his lips and drinks. The man is not drunk, but nor is he sober. He has just knocked off work and he's on his way to his local for a rake of scoops. Time on the tube is time wasted because there are no pubs down here, so he's getting a head start. A can of warm, fizzy, premium strength Export lager on the tube of a Friday. Gulp. Rattle. Burp. Oh, yeah. That's living . . .
Then there is the distinguished-looking gentleman in his 50s strolling past on a sunny Sunday at lunchtime, holding half a bottle of white wine - corked and swinging by his side. In his hand is a paper cup of the Pinot Grigio. He's not concerned about whether his partner at the law firm happens to drive by, because he shouldn't be driving in the first place - not in his condition. In fact, at this very moment, the partner at the law firm is over in Clissold Park or on Highbury Fields, pushing his daughter on the swings with his right hand and supping from the Pimm's Cup in his left.
Behind him, young girls in floral dresses drape themselves across picnic blankets and lob corkscrews to each other, popping open bottles of cava and filling paper cups between their thighs. The guys stand around the rug, restraining homicidal dogs on leashes made from coarse rope and opening bottles of Red Stripe with their lighters.
Kids are given cute baby bottles of whisky to stop them crying and running so bloody far away. Infants suckle at Gordon's gin and back home, granny pours a little sherry into the cat's bowl, then keels over. She'll be rescued the next day by a social worker with a rotten hangover, while the cats miaow for water.
I'm exaggerating, but only slightly. The evidence before my eyes is that the English drink at least as much as we do, and in far more conspicuous a manner. I wonder how it is that we Irish have gained our global reputation as ferocious drinkers; as the world's uber-scoopers - because we certainly do "enjoy" that reputation. Upon being introduced to an American, they might point two index fingers at you and shout "Guinness!". If you are what you drink, then the Irish are perceived worldwide to be a big pint of stout with a jammie on the side.
And yet, upon his election as lord mayor of London, Boris Johnson (or Bo-Jo, to apply the correct, approved contraction) attempted to ban alcohol on public transport and the "Boris won't ban my booze" group was immediately mobilised. This is no student fraternity either - actual grown-ups are involved, fighting for their right to party.
The truth is that it might take years to acquire a reputation, but it takes many more to shake it off. As an ardent fan of many years' standing, I revisited the excellent Withnail and I recently and watched the DVD director's commentary. There are many tiny peculiarities hidden within the script of Bruce Robinson's glorious eulogy to alcohol and fading youth.
There is a drinking game based on the film, which involves matching Marwood and Withnail round-for-round, quadruple gin-for-quadruple gin. At one point in the film, Withnail makes to drink a bottle of lighter fluid and Marwood cautions him, saying: "The wankers on the side of the road wouldn't drink that." To which Withnail responds: "The wankers on the side of the road couldn't afford it." Wanker is a common derogatory term, and there was no reason for me to think I hadn't understood the reference perfectly until I watched the commentary, and Bruce Robinson helpfully explained that the term meant Irish; Irish navvy and Irish drunk to be precise, but basically Irish, and therefore a drinker - and a wanker.
I have never been to Finland, but they tell me it's not unusual to see Teutonic men with a passing resemblance to Sami Hyypia falling face-down in the street at 6.30pm on a Tuesday, having enjoyed a leisurely 37 vodka shots with some friends after knocking off work. Is that much more enlightened than the working men of Kilburn and Cricklewood were in the 1960s and 1970s? Apparently so.
While I'm at it, the Russians enjoy a vodka-and-bare-knuckle-brawl-to-the-death as much as we do, but apparently our own escapades in drinking, fighting and falling over are quite a few generations away from being forgiven and forgotten by the rest of the world.
In the face of all the statistics that show that our binge-drinking levels are rocketing heavenward, no one can argue that the relationship the Irish have with alcohol is an exemplary one. But until we get better, what we need is some kind of global re-branding exercise. Why is it that everyone else gets wasted on St Patrick's Day? Clearly, it is in order to be just like the Irish, and we brought our old reputation to every corner of the globe, so now we need to restore it.
I shouldn't be less Irish if I don't drink, and the man in the London park wasn't Irish, nor the guy with the bottle of wine on the road. As far as I'm concerned, it's fine and dandy for me to approach the man with the can of Carlsberg Export on the tube and call him a wanker, as long as I'm willing to give him a gulp of my meths.
John Butler blogs at http://lozenge.wordpress.com