One Stewed Scribe

Being somewhat of a writer manquée and in this way not at all like the outspoken, talented late Christopher Hitchens (1949-2011) and also somewhat of a dabbler in the fine art of the martini (in that I appreciate a well-made one) but certainly, again, not even approaching the same echelon as the aforementioned boozer, I have to (sheepishly) admit that I enjoyed this bit by him, which I found in an old issue of Vanity Fair, in a column called "Diary":

   There was a time when I could outperform all but the most hardened imbibers, a generous slug or 10 of Mr. Walker's amber restorative being by tipple of preference. It was between the Tel Aviv massacre and the Soviet invasion of

Afghanistan. I now restrict myself to no more than a couple of bottles of halfway decent wine for elevenses, and then a couple more as an accompaniment to luncheon, with Mr. Gordon's gin firmly ensconsed in the driving seat for the remainder of the day. As an
enthusiastic participant in the delights of Mr. Dionysus, I offer no apology for passing down these simple pieces of advice for the young.
   Never drink before breakfast unless the day of the week has a u in it. Martinis go surprisingly well with Corn Flakes, while a medium-dry sherry remains the perfect accompaniment to Mr. Kellogg's admirable Rice Krispies.
   It's much worse to see a woman drunk than a man. I don't know why this is true but it is, it just is. I don't care what you say, it just is and you can take that from me and anyway that's not what I said.
   And finally. If, like me, you are, like me, a professional scrivener, like me, never ever ever drunk while written an article column piece ever. It is, perforce, something I never don't.

—as told to Craig Brown (and previously published in Private Eye)

Now, being a member of the gender that Hitchens isn't and being stone-cold sober as I write this, I must take exception to his advice regarding which makes a less attractive drunk. Honestly, it's neither, but really, women find men as unappealing when they're drunk as men probably find women. Unless they're drunk, too, and then all bets are off. And that's just the way it is.

   For a more modern take on writers and their booze, see the following meditation on the subject, which includes this observation: "Writers cope with the drain of writing now with yoga and meditation and marital discord (and, of course, with weed and Oregon Pinot, too) but the heyday of the writer with the whiskey bottle always on his desk seems past. The price we pay for the end of the drinking life for writers is, perhaps, not so much isolation, though that is so: people can’t believe how few writers actually know other writers; the bars solved that for the old guys, at least. We also pay it, perhaps, in undue cheerfulness and extended youthfulness": http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2014/01/writers-and-rum.html