Very early in life, I perfected one skill: I can carry four pints at once. I put them in a straightforward quadrant; nothing dumb like balancing one on top. I have an incredible hand span, but also very pouchy, sausage-like fingers, qualities not much prized by the checklist of female allure, but extremely useful for carrying glasses. I had a brilliant apprenticeship, pulling pints at festivals around people who were too far gone to notice. When youthful hubris led me to try five, I learned my limits in a safe place, with plastic cups, surrounded by grass.
People always worry, even if they know me well, that this is just more of my bullshit. They try to help me out by each ordering the same drink. But they needn’t, because I can carry four of any pint – the technique isn’t shape-related. (The exception that proves the rule is Camden Town Brewery’s weirdly squat pint glass.) It’s a kind of genius. Swap one out with a glass of wine and I’m still your person.
It’s great when things are busy. Walking away from the bar, the crowds part, as if I’m engaged in something incredibly impressive and extremely risky, such as juggling torches. It’s great if you love attention, but it’s also great if you don’t love interaction: go to the bar once at the start of the evening and you never have to go back. It works just as well with pints of lime and soda, so you never find yourself shackled to a drinking culture for no better reason than your USP and your pride are gone without one. If you happen to do it when everyone is at the peak of their joie de vivre, you might even get a cheer.
I’m blessed by genetic happenstance: my dad could also carry four pints, but he didn’t get so much pleasure out of it, because he hated buying four pints. I wouldn’t say it’s for everyone, but I would say to the younger reader: if you think you’ve got it in you, start training now.