Hardly a startling confession for a Glasgow journalist of state pension age.
In almost 50 years in newspapers I don't remember many non-drinkers.
A few were reformed or moderate imbibers; most liked a good bucket; some couldn't work sober; too many drank themselves to death.
Born into a non-drinking family, my introduction to serious boozers came in the Sixties as a teenage copy boy at the Evening Times in Mitchell Street.
In my first week I was to deliver the first edition to the Sports Editor.
He was in residence in Sammy Dow's, but it was 9am and the pub was bolted.
I was directed into the machine room, where printers recognised a lost soul and pointed me towards a door.
It opened directly into Sammy Dow's. It was going like a fair.
The Sports Editor asked what I was drinking. It was not a question. I chose the same bottle of lager as him. His tipple was Carlsberg Special Brew. Bad start.
In our teens we slipped into local pubs and bopped to The Poets at the Flamingo Ballroom in Paisley Road West, having first retired to the swanky lifts in the nearby Moss Heights, Glasgow's first high-rises, there to find chat-up Dutch courage in quarter bottles of Eldorado or Lanliq, the Buckfast of their day.
In our 20s, more upmarket Sunday night drinks flowed at the Redhurst Hotel disco, Mondays at Joanna's in Bath Street, Sauchiehall Street's White Elephant on Thursdays, the city's Muscular Arms or Rogano every other night.
At the Highlanders' Institute in Berkeley Street, you couldn't shut the toilet cubicles for empty half bottles, smuggled into the jigging in girls' handbags.
I never needed drugs. Alcohol got me high enough. So who am I to lecture anyone on the evils of drink?
Well, I've seen it wreck families and careers. It killed in their 50s my two closest friends I met here at the Times as teenagers.
Drink wasn't all they had in common. Marriage didn't work out for them and they both divorced very early.
I was luckier, I found a stronger incentive to go straight home after work.
The fact I'm around to celebrate our 40th wedding anniversary next year is entirely down to Nancy Sheppard becoming my best pal.
I quit smoking when our first son arrived, but the thought of putting the genie back in the bottle didn't enter my head.
Still, compared with my bachelor days I became a monk.
Newspaper offices also became drink-free, but according to health guidelines I still sup more wine than is good for me.
I'm far from alone. Figures last week showed alcohol consumption has fallen in Scotland, but we still drink more than we did 10 years ago — and 19% more than the English.
So why are Scots dying for a drink?
What makes the Tartan Army turn Trafalgar Square into a midden? Why do Glasgow Summer Sessions concert fans turn Bellahouston Park and Mosspark into a toilet?
Nobody knows. It's part of our multi-generational DNA.
Drinkers cite peer pressure, the need for a social lubricant to suppress inhibitions, a de-stresser from work or personal issues.
SOME like the taste, everyone likes the buzz, many just drink to get drunk.
Sociologists talk of Glaswegians' grim Victorian heritage, when drinking became an escape, or the fall-out from the industrial revolution that eventually saw ships and steel and mines closed and communities destroyed.
But every January since the 18th century we've drunk the health of a notorious boozer, Rabbie Burns.
Since 1920, I Belong To Glasgow has been sung in praise of a wellied Weegie who puts his missus in her place.
And today Holyrood lauds the Scotch whisky industry while telling the rest of us drink is evil.
Those same politicians must know that price alone won't reverse a culture which invades housing schemes and leafy suburbs alike.
We need brutal self- analysis and a campaign like that mounted against smoking to have any hope of sobering up this Dear Green Round the Gills Place.
But I fear the hangover will hurt for years.
I'VE never craved the dubious breakfast pleasure of that bizarre Scottish delicacy, the deep-fried Mars Bar.
I'm a porridge man, so sticking with Scott's So-Easy oats is surely best in my efforts to keep the old arteries from clogging.
Maybe not. While porridge has been shown to reduce the risk of heart disease, eating chocolate has been seen to reduce the risk of stroke.
Professor Matthew Walters, top stroke consultant at the Western Infirmary, will now pit the chippies' champion against our trusty national favourite, feeding 24 Glasgow Uni volunteers and measuring the effects on blood flow to the brain.
It seems like stating the obvious, and you may imagine anyone who eats such deep-fried concoctions doesn't have a brain.
But would it not just be typically Glaswegian if the fry-up proved to be the best brain food after all!