Yes, it's true; I fell off the wagon last Friday night.

But … BUT … this is not to be confused with a crushing blow or anything like that. I'm quite content with the outcome.

Having returned to a state of approximate health, after a nasty sinus infection, last week was suitably manic, and I cleared out much of the overflowing inbox. Such a glow of accomplishment is hard to resist, especially for one who has a long and sometimes sordid history of rewarding accomplishment with fine beer.

And rewarding … and still more rewarding … and eventually forgetting what the achievement was.

So, following fifteen days of abstinence, the obligatory public service announcement was made ("my name is Roger, and I'm a weak piece of you know what"), and a quivering toe was somewhat hesitantly dipped into the water in the form of a 16-ounce portion of draft Pilsner Urquell. Seeing as there remains persistent congestion, the Urquell was a less than vibrant selection, although the beer itself cannot be faulted.

At this point I was standing in the general vicinity of the G Spot at the Public House, roughly adjacent to the lambic rack, and it seemed axiomatic that a 2004 Drie Fonteinen Oude Gueuze would shake loose the cobwebs. But, 25 ounces seemed like too much.

Luckily, just then I spotted a typically adventurous evening regular who was willing to partner with the bottle, and we split it. Good timing, indeed.

Acidic and funky, and smooth as butter; perfectly complimenting an hour's conversation, and even better, I didn't drink at all on Saturday and Sunday, and almost certainly won't nip again until Wednesday at the earliest.

Failure? I suppose. However, to paraphrase the late Tug McGraw, a few million years from now, none of it will matter, will it?