orcajun wrote:

1954 and a young soldier stationed at Newton Abbott in Devon, first payday there and out on the lash, along with several mates, found a nice pub and settled ourselves for a session with pints of black and tan at one shilling and threepence a pint. An old chap in the corner started to play a piano and after a couple of tunes I offered to buy him a drink. "Oi thankee, young man, Oi'll 'ave a point o scrumpy," came the reply. Duly ordered, I was impressed by the price...8 pence. My black and tans were swiftly abandoned and cider became the order of the day and a few pints were soon quaffed.  Eventually it was time to return to camp and as I left the pub I stumbled, then regained my footing but stumbled again and went reeling all over the place. My mind was as clear as a bell, but my legs just refused to work! I simply could not keep my balance. Staggering around, I was late back to camp and was ordered to appear before the company commander next day. I duly did so, was severely bollocked and confined to camp for seven days!  1954 and have never touched scrumpy again......

Meant to reply at the time Leedsy.

My old man went on honeymoon to Devon with my Mum many many moons ago and he told me that the most drunk he'd ever been and subsequently most hungover the following day, was drinking scrumpy in their local taverns.

Said much the same as you. You feel happy and control in your mind, but your legs just go.