IN my youth, half a century ago, it was uncommon to see a drunken man. A drunken woman was so rare as to be almost an anthropological specimen.

For anyone who disputes this, perhaps recalling the prodigious quantities of beer put away by steelworkers, miners and shipbuilders, let me say that, for years, I often reported from Middlesbrough Magistrates' Court. Every morning brought a handful of drunks - but only a handful. And I only once saw a woman convicted of being drunk and disorderly. As she left the dock she called out, apropos of nothing that had gone before: "Your worship, I'm a wardrobe dealer, not stealer.'' (You couldn't invent it, could you?)

Today we have "binge drinking", in which legions of young people, with girls prominent, embark on a night out whose primary aim seems to be to get drunk. Other people who happen to be on the streets feel intimidated. Dealing with the mayhem as the bingers stagger noisily from club to club, some collapsing in the gutters, others fighting, takes up most of the police's night-time resources.

Where has this "culture" - misuse of a word if ever there was one - sprung from? Why, for these young people, is having a good time inseparable from drinking themselves senseless? To the extent that last weekend one city, Cardiff, felt obliged to set up a field hospital to deal with the most paralytic of the bingers?

I haven't the answer. But it's hard to resist the thought that perhaps we need a re-run of the Second World War. Binge drinkers might be brought up with a jolt if they suddenly found themselves in a field hospital for the reasons for which field hospitals are normally required - to treat the wounded who have been fighting for their lives, and the safety of loved-ones back home, on some hellish front line.

The binge drinkers' front line is hell all right - but a hell of their own making. Tony Blair might care to note that it has got worse through the very liberalisation of the licensing laws that was meant to end it. Perhaps a return to last orders at 10.30pm should be considered.

IT turns out that during her affair with David Blunkett, Kimberly Quinn was having an affair with Guardian journalist Simon Hoggart. Is there any man anywhere who has resisted the "mesmerising" charms of Mrs Quinn? Step forward, man-in-a-million. The Queen awaits with a New Year "Medal of Honour" already in her hand.

THIS Christmas, as on many previously, two holly trees in my garden, which I planted as seedlings more than 30 years ago, are aflame with berries. Not one will brighten our house. The berries are a Christmas gift to the birds, who have already begun devouring them.

All berried holly should be left for the birds. An organic farm shop that my wife and I support has holly wreaths for sale. I long to say that it isn't "green" either to rob the birds of winter food or damage the tree from which the branches have been cut. Instead, conscious of the season, I wish the staff "Happy Christmas". And, whether or not your hall is (shamefully) decked with holly, I wish the same for you.