IT'S one of life's unwritten rules and it's there for a reason.

But I couldn't even keep it - and I had to pay.

You should never go out in a working week. Weekends are fine, days off etc, but when it comes to the working week, nights should be spent watching television, chatting about the weather and, ultimately, going to bed as early as possible.

The modern British employee works the longest hours in Europe and therefore must make that extra effort to stay fresh and alert. Early starts equate to early bedtimes.

Those who fail to adhere to the most basic of principles - getting in your eight hours - will be punished. Like me. Earlier this week saw me break from my strict, self-imposed routine. Instead of watching the fuzzy television and talking about the weather, I was feeding the pub jukebox my hard-earned pound coins and talking about nothing in particular.

By the time I should have been in bed and long asleep, I was heading to the bar for another drink. The next day, of course I was tired.

The recommended eight hours' sleep was virtually halved and what sleep I got was punctuated by occasional visits to the little-boys' room. What should have been another day at the office quickly turned into a test of my mind, spirit and body.

One eye was kept firmly on the clock, which had heavy hands that day. The hours stretched way beyond they normally do and I just wanted to be in bed, catching up on those precious lost hours.

The more I longed for it, the further away it seemed to be. By dinnertime, it felt as if I had worked a full week and I honestly didn't know if I would survive the afternoon.

This extreme tiredness was coupled with a distinct queasiness from the exploits of the night before, making my situation almost unbearable. Slowly I began to lose the power to concentrate, then to speak and finally my will to live.

This is why you should never go out in the working week.

In mitigation, m'lud, it wasn't all my fault. I didn't suddenly rise from my chair that fateful evening and declare my intention to go to the pub, because I know the consequences.

Rather I had my arm twisted. It all started with a phone call from my old mate Fred the Dread. The dreaded one had arrived back in Sunny Rochdale following the break-up of his university course for the summer and he had good news, which he was bursting to share.

But rather than tell me over the phone, he was insistent he told me in person. And seeing that he was halfway up the M6 when making said phone call, there was nothing much I could do.

The news arrived, as did he, some 30 minutes later, which was that he had been under-funded throughout his first year at uni. Thus he was owed the princely sum of £3,000! Good news indeed.

Calls for a drink, I should say.

I was hesitant at first, but Fred can be very persistent when he wants and the opportunity to have him spend money on me, rather than the other way round, was just too good to miss.

But it's something I shouldn't have done and I won't be so weak again. I look upon it as a throwback to the good old days of my youth when such behaviour was almost expected.

These days working weeks should mean cheap soap operas and talks about the weather.