But if you think that seems ill-advised, a former colleague of mine has an even crazier tale to tell.
He was invited by a client to a party in the mountains of Kazakhstan, which in my book is the same as signing up for liver failure. They were gulping shot after shot in honour of every relative they could think of, and when they ran out of relatives, they started toasting their neighbours.
After two hours, even that became difficult. That was when some bright spark began toasting the animals they had culled for the feast, which was perfectly fine until they shouted “horse”.
Now my friend owns a few stables outside London, and was wracked with guilt when he realised he had been consuming the Asian relatives of his beloved horses.
He was out for revenge, and promptly began a mission to get everyone involved with the shameful slaughter as drunk as possible. Somehow he managed it, and finally sat back to survey the wreckage with pride — before realising that there was now no one to drive him back to his hotel.
It was at this moment that his now only partially clothed client approached him to make a request he couldn't refuse.
“It would be an honour for me to drive you in my car,” said the client, his eyes firmly closed.