This may come as a surprise but my drinking days are numbered. After watching 50 soccer matches over the past 16 days and imbibing vaporous depressants nonstop, I had an epiphany.
The first time was many moons ago when the company that used to be called SAB invited the media to a beer-tasting competition.
Each media house had to send three journalists and I was the automatic choice to join Werner and Francois and make the employer proud.
After all, my predilection to hops has always been an open secret everywhere I've worked.
You can't hide such a smelly habit anymore than you can an eight-month pregnancy. The bar smell explained my late arrivals every morning and my disappearances after lunch.
Beer-tasting is tougher than Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Five different kinds of beer are poured into transparent cups and the participants are required to identify each by smell, colour and, eventually, taste.
My first handicap was never paying attention to the colour of my hooch. Years of unbridled drinking had long diminished my sense of taste and only habanero tabasco sauce has the zing to sting my tongue back into life.
I'm embarrassed to mention I could not even identify Carling Black Label, even though it had previously led me to baptise my clothes when I mistook the closet for the bathroom. Clearly, Zamalek was not brewed to tickle my mitochondria.
The fun really started after the YFM team won the first prize. SAB opened the taps and I felt like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory.