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The Pint is a wondrous contraption, a marvellous and divinely concepted masterpiece of alcoholic worship, like a Toltec civilisation, yet refined and refreshingly antiquated, like a grandmother.

Said "Pint" is oft found to contain Beer(s), Ale(s), Spirit(s), hobgoblins, and should Providence be favourable, young maidens. Men and women abound have gone on to lead happy and bountiful lives once introduced to the manifold luxuries to be found within our subject.

One such example, steeped in notoriety, is that of a M. Norm, a resident of Britain, and a fellow who soon discovered the meandering ways of alcohol, and the "Pint".

One sunny day, many years ago, he and I (your faithful narrator) and several others embarked on a journey of sorts, drinking the brew of fortitude known as Boddingtons, and cheap cider, like dirty trampish louts and teenage girls. There is no real moral to this story, it is moral-free and swings in the loins of lore from this point on.

M Norm became intoxicated, hallucinations abound, delusions of grandeur, and a lack of coherency began to grip him tentatively.

This state has gripped him until this very day.

To join M Norm, and millions (NAY, Billions) of others across the globe, go to your local grog-shoppe and demand "A glorious pint of your finest grog, barkeep". Then bask.