ANYONE who has, in the past, owned a dog called Scrumpy should not become your cider-drinking partner. Especially, if like me, you weigh about half as much as him.

The warning sign was there. It was virtually flashing red - and I still ignored it.

Keith (His nickname, Perdie Teddies, which was used extensively over the weekend, was coined after his unusual Devonian reference to some seed potatoes - and otherwise lost on a Yorkshireman like me) was 70 and it was his birthday weekend. I could smell the danger and it whiffed of strong cider.

If the normal rules of a person's resistance to drink diminishing with age were to apply, and people at his party were of a similar vintage to him, there should be no problems. Needless to say, there were.

It started early afternoon, the day before the big surprise "do", when the lads were rounded up for a quick snifter down the local.

"Zaader, Rob?"

"I'll have a Guinness thanks, Keith." A good answer from a man who, having had an altercation with a circular saw, recently lost a portion of one of his hands (not after a session on the cider, I presume). I will follow suit, I think. There's no way I will be persuaded to repeat last year's cider experience. No way on Earth.

Andy? "Yes please, local hooch with debris floating around in it would be great, thanks. None of that weak commercially-produced sugar water' for me. Oh no."

Keith then informed me that the milkman used to knock about 10 pints back while doing his rounds, and he's well into retirement and still going. Probably not still going strong, but going anyway. So I should have no problem.

Three-quarters of a gallon and a few Irish whiskies later as a suitable pre-St. Paddy's Day precursor and we're off home for the evening meal. Minutes in and I'm splattering my upper body, as well as those within range with hot soup and am just about to have an accident involving my head, shoulder, left-hand side of the body and a - now bent - metallic dog cage. People who had earlier seen me in the pub said they could have predicted such an incident. Instead of warning me, though, they bought me more drinks. I wonder why?

The accident sobered me up almost instantly, copious quantities of wine and whisky were supped until 3am, before I was awoken to witness the opening of the presents - namely 14 bottles of whisky, four of wine, two of port and one of champagne.

At 10am and we are offered "sippies" of the whisky as appears to be the norm when any bottle is proferred in this household. Even having served 70 glorious years on this planet, the birthday boy has been up since 5am, and walked to work and back before I've even managed to heave myself out of my pit.

There's respite when we go to the football and, in my partner's eyes, following last night's performance, I'm already one-nil down, but a strong half-time talking to will see me coming back good and strong.

That night's party (the surprise of seeing the assembled 70 guests almost knocked Keith over, which was more than all the cider, whisky, port and sloe gin did) sees me equalise when, just four hours in, my partner was staggering, groping guests, and spilling red wine over the cream carpet. Having been dragged to bed by her mum, I made the score one-all, at least.

The lesson learned for both of us? Do not go drinking with a 70-year-old man born in the Westcountry, where people sing "I am a cider drinker, I drink it all of the day." Practice, obviously, makes perfect.