There is a story about my drinking that in some roundabout way describes how I feel about booze.
I was playing for Southampton. I still lived in Sheffield and was catching a flight to Southampton after a game against Leeds.
I was travelling with Egil Ostenstad, a team-mate at Saints. It was Monday morning and, as was my custom, I had spent Sunday boozing. The session had been a long one and I was still p***ed when I boarded the plane. Thirty minutes into the flight, there was a resounding bang, like a muffled gunshot, and the plane lurched badly before steadying itself, albeit awkwardly.