. A blogumn by Fiona Craig A Scotswoman weighs in on all things British How to Get Pissed… Properly The Brits love drinking. I don’t just mean a couple of glasses of Chablis with our evening meal like our oh-so-suave French neighbours. I mean we really love drinking as in, a couple of bottles of whatever’s on 3-for-2 at Tesco’s before we’ve even thought about unpacking the groceries, let alone started cooking. Let us not mince our words here, we Brits drink to get wasted, pissed, trollied, blootered, leathered, mashed, paralytic, stocious, (well ok, you get the point). Most of our traditions include some element of toasting something’s or someone’s arrival or departure. For example, it’s our patron saint’s day* Absolutely! Let us demonstrate our patriotism by going to the nearest pub, our shoulders swathed in the national flag, arms held aloft, hands brandishing proudly the umpteenth jar of ale as if it were the FA Cup on finals day. And let us sing, nae, shout our national anthem (or the first couple of lines that we remember from primary school). But most importantly, let us fill our glasses, once more, and drink to our great nation’s patron, “To Saint ……. [who is it again??] ahhh, anyway, who’s round is it?” Millions of all teenagers over the land are literally coming of age on park benches and in bus shelters under the influence of Diamond White** or Buckfast***. It has become a near right-of-passage to have your stomach pumped in the local A&E****  by the time your sixteen! As with their parents, the real benefits of ‘a good night out’ are reaped the day after as you win the admiration of friends and colleagues with tales of the moronic buffoonery that you do remember...