Origins

Belly up to the Bar, Boys

by John Collins

Ah, drink: giver of courage, fountain of resolve, maker of legends. As much a part of our history as war and religion, alcohol has weaved its way into and out of many a troubled marriage, business, and alleyway like a wobbly, noisy, rather smelly thief in the night. Many a tale has been told about bacchanalian adventuring, and many terms coined to describe the result. Let’s see if I can’t sober up long enough to recall a couple of them.

Drinking Under the Table

An acquaintance was extolling the virtues of his stalwart buddy one evening, and one of the subject’s admirable attributes was apparently the ability to "drink anyone under the table". I, of course, immediately assumed his friend was Russian. You see, legend has it that one evening the brothers Chekhov (Anton and Pavel) were whiling away the wee hours in a small tavern just outside of Vladivostok. The rest of the patrons were, for the most part, staring morosely into their samovars, nearing the boiling point, muttering occasionally to themselves and boring the bortsch out of the brothers.

"Friends," cried Pavel (he was the more adventurous of the two, always willing to boldly seek out new life in a party), "I give you a challenge. We will all drink this tavern’s fine vodka, and after each drink we will dance around the table in the middle of the room, kicking our legs out exuberantly! The last man able to complete the circuit drinks free for a month!" With this, he raised his mug high, gave a mighty yell, and gulped down the contents.

Pavel was the first to dance ‘round the table, followed quickly by his brother Anton, their neighbour Vladmir, his cousin Yuri, and several others. As the drinks were downed, so were the dancers, falling one by one and shoved — you guessed it — under the table. Finally, only Pavel and cousin Yuri remained, Anton long since consigned to the muttering, drooling heap. "I will be victorious," yelled Pavel, "for you are clearly three sheets to the wind!" Which reminds me of another story...

Three Sheets to the Wind

There once was a young sailor, let’s call him Ishmael, whose boat was scheduled to leave port at dawn. It seems, however, that our hero spent overlong saying a passionate farewell to his lifelong love of three days (the length of time he’d been in port) and was rushing to the docks to make his ship. Having revelled all night and still not been abed, our young Ishmael was none too steady on his feet, and nearly fell from the gangplank on this way up. However, he made it safely, and immediately came under the baleful eye of the first mate, a bitter, sea-worn man of prodigious height and girth. "Get on there, you sea slug," bellowed the giant, "and tend to your rigging. This ain’t no pleasure boat, y’know."

So, Ishmael staggered off to his post and began fastening the sail-trimming ropes to the bollards on the deck. The ropes he was tying were actually called the sheets, and the proper name for the bollards he was tying them to is a bitt. So, naturally, he was attaching the sheet at its bitter end, or final extremity (wow, there’s a surprise origin out of nowhere). He didn’t fasten them very well, though, because when they set sail, three of the sheets were unsecured and went flapping in the wind, and the boat staggered through the water like a drunkard.

Well, at least it’s food for thought next time you’re out with friends at your favourite watering hole.