Ah, finally you get around to my hero. Not this Kingsley, the late drunk with the destroyed brain; the novelist and drinks expert.
But you fail to mention some of his other late failings: his habit, while deep in his cups, of screaming foul abuse at innocent people; for instance, shouting at them about what a vile terrorist bastard Nelson Mandela was. My favorite late anecdote was the time he accosted Claudio Abbado, the famous conductor, and, on the topic of Mozart, shouted "you don't know what you're talking about". Abbado, to his credit, merely stared at him for a few moments and then turned to someone else and changed the subject.
It's easy to forget that he was the best English novelist of the 20th century, possibly only exceeded by Waugh (who also had his little personality disorders).
Being able to hold one's liquor is a mark of an excellent human being.
That is why Ireland is full of excellent human beings.
Then again nothing is guaranteed. My dad was raised by two drink-happy Irish-Americans (both of whom lived well into their eighties), drank accordingly, and died of cirrhosis at 61.
Make sure your liver can handle it, ok?
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