D is almost halfway through his J1 and it's been a whirlwind of beef patties and getting refused service at 3am in the Wendy's drive through...

It’s beginning. The end, that is. It’s safe to say we’re really J1-ing now. Maybe safe is the wrong word. We’ve emerged from debt, and most of us are gainfully employed. The week has been defined by alcohol and bad food.

The E train has apparently just given up on working this week, meaning it was taking two hours to get home; a seven mile journey. Eventually common sense prevailed and I just stopped trying to get home. At the rate the trains were running at I might as well be out getting pissed if I’m not going to get home until three in the morning anyway. Let the record show that I tried to go home after work.

I think every night this week has ended up with us in the bodega on the corner down the road from the house buying six bottles and two beef patties each. Beef patties are manila envelopes stuffed with meat slush and melted plastic cheese. DooDoo also bought more “meat-flavoured sauce” which he says provides you with one of your five chicken beaks a day. He’s also convinced he bought a chicken from a place called Gran Turismo 2.

Bud Light Platinum has proved a hit. Anheuser-Busch decided to make up for their shit beer by adding two extra per cent ABV to it, which we’re ok with. The drinking is becoming gratuitous and hopefully we’re going to strike a happy medium between drunken escapades and human agency some time soon.

I still haven’t put my finger on the exact mixture of circumstances that leads to the J1’s particular brand of alcoholic excess. You just operate on a different level to home. You find hidden depths you never knew you had, and you fill them with Jameson. You have three years on the legal age you think to yourself, I’m more experienced at drinking than the law. At four in the morning your brain tells you it’s already morning in Wexford, I need not sleep, time is on my side. No, none of that makes much, if any, sense; but you were very drunk at the time.

DooDoo went to Walmart in Jersey City and bought a skateboard, $200 cowboy boots and an $8 machete. How’s that for American immersion, USIT?  Fun is still recovering from the $75 haircut. The Mitty, Gin and I are rocking the tips.

We ended up in Wendy’s on Friday at stupid o clock after several libations. Wendy’s is where ambition and cholesterol go to die, depending on whether you’re working or eating there. I have never seen more bet down staff. The actual seating area was closed but the sign said that we could order at the drive-through window.

No one told the staff. Despite our knocking on the windows (they would make eye contact) and talking into the speaker (they would mumble back) they refused to acknowledge that we were there. It was like watching the fucking depressed pandas at the zoo.

After arguing with the speaker for five minutes we were joined by an American girl.

“What part of Ireland are you from?”

“Are you assuming I’m Irish because I’m shouting at a machine, drunk, at three in the morning?”

“No, me da’s from Galway.”

Finally the speaker crackled that they wouldn’t serve us because we weren’t in a car. At which point a car arrived.

“Can we use your car to order food please?”

“Yeah man, hop in.”

“Ye’re good lads.”

Fuck you Wendy.

The Russian Vodka Room has a lot to answer for. As does Gin, who has convinced me to stay out several times against my better judgement with “What would Byron do?” Apparently his lordship would stay out and drink $8 pitchers.

The Mitty was sacked for being drunk on the job. When your boss asks you if you’re drinking on the job, the response “no, I was pissed when I got here” is not satisfactory. He’s been telling people the reason he got sacked was because he was pissed and hooked up a Calor gas cylinder instead of a keg and nearly blew the place up. I wouldn’t put it past him.

Follow D's drink-fuelled adventures here: @d_joyceahearne