Blog: We Brits are without doubt the kings of binge drinking. In every other facet of human endeavour another country somewhere is bound to trump us, but boozing – it’s a real source of pride, writes Peter Finch.

I love beer, but this weekend was an eye opener to the ridiculous situations you can render when rendered, and why I’m thinking it might be time to stop.

My friend Mark decided to give up living and get married. So he, me, and a dozen young respectable gentlemen donned our wet gear and headed for the Lake District.

Instead of a normal stag party we stumbled across the idea of taking tents and pitching camp by the side of Windermere, drinking until first light.

We found the perfect spot – a little wooded glade for the tents and a pebbled beach running down to the water, all overshadowed by two large oak trees.

The town of Windermere twinkled from across the water and boats floated lazily in the shallows.

After what seemed like a barrel of cider I found myself surrounded by a silent crowd. All eyes were on me as I gripped a rusty golf club, its head covered in lighter fluid and burning brightly in the twilight. My ball, also aflame, was teed up on an empty Carling can.

Fortunately we all missed the boats at “Hell’s Driving Range”, but it was great seeing little yellow comets zooming off into the water.

The sambuca made its first pass and a general consensus was reached to try and commandeer one of those innocent little ships now surely petrified at our presence.

The piracy was short lived however when no one was prepared to swim, so another consensus was reached – we should grab the unfortunate bridegroom and launch him into the water instead.

Now paralytic beyond measure I sat and watched with amazement my friend Chris’s attempt to go for a wee. Getting his angles wrong he stepped off a bank and fell straight into the freezing abyss.

Emerging from the water and stumbling towards the campfire Chris slipped, tripped, and rolled straight into the middle of the blazing inferno. He was quiet annoyed, we were in hysterics.

Normal human speech was lost at about 3am. I talked to Mark for ten minutes with not a single comprehensible word escaping from my head; he just kept telling me he was really happy, bottle of Jagermeister in hand.

Incredibly, in a marvel of engineering not seen since the Brooklyn Bridge, I erected my tent absolutely out of my face. I did however fail to zip up both the door and roof flap before passing out.

Awaking at 8am to the steady patter of rain on my forehead and feet submerged in water was not pleasant. I stumbled from my shaky tent (I’d hammered the tent pegs in about half a metre away) to be confronted with an absolute bombsite, cans everywhere, limbs left abandoned out of car windows – even a charred guitar thrown in the lake.

A rambler walked past, un-amused, and I can see why she was so miffed. Why do we do these stupid things? (Don’t worry, we made sure we cleared up after ourselves.)

Alcohol makes us fat, slow, mindless fools, but we love it. Why seek the bottom of an empty glass with such relish?

Drunk or sober we all need to recognise politicians for once have a point:  the UK has deep rooted and unsustainable alcohol problems.

For my part I’m taking a month off the booze and spending the cash saved on my long suffering girlfriend, I would encourage others tired of hangovers to follow my lead.

Just one month and I’m already tempted to have a drink. Pathetic really.