Give me my right to binge

I have very special memories of the summer of 1994. It was my gap year between A-levels and University. I suppose I should have been finding myself in south-east Asia – but, instead, I was working in a grim call centre in south London. After completing my millionth soul-corroding call of the day, I would get down the pub just in time for happy hour.

Ah, that happy hour! Less than a quid for a pint of Fosters

between six and seven, with a beautiful riverside view thrown in for free. By seven, all the dreary memories of the working day had been washed away on a sea of inexpensive Australian lager. Since then, happy hours have been gradually phased out because of the hysterical obsession with Britain's binge-drink 'problem'.

Of course, there's nothing really wrong with a bit of binge drinking. For every binge drinker who gets in a fight, pukes in someone's front garden or