It used to worry me a fair bit when my kids were younger that they might put themselves in harm’s way when they’d had a few pops and, believe me, I know from first-hand experience  that it might be in their genes.  I too had been stupid in drink when I was younger to the point of being reckless.

Take these few examples, spawned from those days I spent taxpayer’s money in the form of my grant on beer while I was a student at Durham University.

Anyone familiar with the city will know of the Kingsgate footbridge which crosses the River Wear by the Student’s Union.  It’s relatively new, or it was in the 70’s when I was there, with sidewalls topped with a parapet about 18 inches wide.  I recollect racing another silly sod when we were both in drink at full pelt along these – him on one side and me on the other.  Either of us could have fallen the 30’ into the Wear below to drown, break bones or die.  But they say that God has a soft spot for drunks and we didn’t.

Not that I was unfamiliar with falling from heights or the cool embrace of the river.

On another occasion while we were trying to gatecrash the posh University College’s Castle Ball, me and another numpty were sneaking around its outer walls looking for an “easy in”.  At one of the several unlit sections we came across a wall which I made to jump over.  “You can’t see how far down it is” said my mate, who evidently had a good bit more sense than me.  And he was right; it might have been 6’ or 60’.  It was, as the saying goes, “a leap in the dark”.  I never did find out how far down it was but 10 pints of Newky Brown clearly softened the landing.

And I got close up and personal with the River Wear the time I swam across it for a bet.

The first winter I was there, we’d stripped into kit for a home match but were told we couldn’t play on the first fifteen pitch but had to play on one of the dogshit pitches on the other side of the river.  This meant a walk of about a mile down to Moody’s Bridge in the snow and hail.

Well, after the match I thought “Bugger that for a game of soldiers.  I’ll swim across”.

So I collected a few bets in the currency of pints of beer, got someone to carry my boots back and slithered in.

Now you need to understand that there was a good covering of snow on the ground and the river was in full spate, swirling malevolently across me.  But I fancied myself as a decent swimmer, although not for long.  For every yard I gained forward the river took me ten downstream.  And it was cold.  Bloody cold.  Halfway across I started to struggle as I got tired.  Bloody tired.  It was becoming a bit of a battle, I can tell you, as the thought occurred to me that I might not make it.

Now I don’t want to spoil a good story, but I did.  Just.  I clung on to a branch for a while before trying to scramble exhausted up its muddy bank.

A game old bird walking her dog threw me a hand and helped haul me out, herself getting clarted up in the process and probably thinking, “Shit-for-brains students!”  I later found out she was the wife of the Master of one of the colleges.

The river had carried me about half a mile downstream so I had to trudge back to the changing rooms through the playing fields of snow.  I’d gained nothing on my team mates who’d walked back and who’d got there before me but I’d had to do it in stockinged feet.

I spent the next five days in sick bay with a stomach bug.

I have good cause to worry about my kids and their genes.