"And you haven't even felt those yet."

She was correct, I hadn't.

This was after guzzling shot number six. Or maybe it was seven.

Then I blacked out.

You've probably heard that Brits like to drink. And dunnhumby was a British company and so I can attest, this is, indeed, a fact.

I joined dunnhumby's executive team after the acquisition of BzzAgent in 2010. There, twelve of us responsibly oversaw $1 billion in revenue and 2,500 people. We also liked to drink, like fish who somehow remained thirsty after drinking up the whole lake.

Before dunnhumby I could booze - but never quite like this.

Maybe in college, in short irresponsible bursts, but here our business affairs required saucery (no, not sorcery) and over-imbibing, one for all and all for one, is that all you're going to have, make it a double, Oh c'mon let's grab a nightcap, you seem rat-arsed, why are you throwing up, holy shît I'm hungover.

By winter 2012, a few years in, I'm well-heeled and fully trained. And it just so happens to be my turn to host the executive team in Boston.

Game on, I say, we'll show you how it's done on my turf, Masshole style.

Twenty-five of us head to the East Coast Grill, a spot known for seafood and supreme spice; take their "Hell Night , 🔥" where diners signed a liability waiver, mostly because of dishes like Meatball Roulette, where one wrong meatball would send you packing for a week of digestive issues.

And so as we're being seated, and dunnhumby CEO Simon Hay is calmly ordering a few pleasant bottles of Bordeaux, I sneak off to order a round of tequila shots for everyone.

Ha ha ha, here we go, down the hatch, what a hoot, especially Hay, who appreciates a good prank as much as anyone.

Splendid!

But Hay isn't one to be outplayed, and so he begins a toast and offers a challenge: anyone on the team who wishes to do a shot with Dave, order up a pair, one for them, one for Dave, pip pip, ho ho and the like.

Quickly a line forms, a dozen deep.

Soon chants erupt, as if we're entering the final five minutes of a Manchester United match.

First up, what's this? A Slippery Nipple, what's in it, dunno, no matter, I'll make quick work of it to back slaps and howls.

Step right up, oh ok, Jäger, c'mon, that's licorice and evil; yahoo, yes, I'll slurp it up, holy crap, gross, oh and here comes a Lemon Drop chaser, sure, you're gonna get wankered, ok, mmm, oh hello what's this one more even sure what a Duck Fart is, but apparently I just had one.

A few more and I call a moderate timeout to jeers and catcalls, while plopping down next to Terri Leitgeb, Head of People, who reminds me that at only thirty minutes in, those shots hadn't even hit yet. This, a very responsible level of concern - and I realized I would be mullered in no time.

I text to girlfriend Sarah, "Help!"

Then, quickly, feverishly, "You need to come get me."

A fact: From here on, everything I can recount is second-hand, because shortly after this my world dissolved into a black swirl, interspersed by brief snapshots as if from half-developed Polaroids.

They say I arose and partook in a few more shots and then, mumbling half-wittedly, escaped to fresh air, caterwauling out the front door, jacketless, into the November chill.

Eventually, Sarah arrived, which the dunnhumby execs found hilarious, the hazing was going perfectly; she chewed them out for letting me depart into the night but, tough luck, they offered, he'll be fine, you should have seen him - drunk as a skunk, legless really - get of the car on the highway in South Korea a few months back.

Sarah eventually found me stutter-walking on an Inman Square side street, giddy, chilled to the bone. She carried me slumped soldier-style to the car, a trip of fits and starts as every few feet I'd stop to empty my stomach in an exclamation point of exasperation.

But the car was futile.

I resisted.

It was too warm or too reclined or too air freshened; I have no memory, but apparently I rolled out and refused to return. I started walking, slowly and sloppily, the two miles home, with Sarah behind me, coasting in the car at 3 mph, ensuring I didn't fall into a snow bank, but mostly because I was an escaped zoo animal she hoped would eventually tire itself out.

The next day, at the early hour of 8 a.m., I'd arranged a meet and greet between Simon Hay and David Fialkow of General Catalyst.

Simon and I arrive (responsibly, of course) feeling oily and dismal, reeking of spice and booze. Fialkow, as ever, isn't tender on us; he's a madman, a catch-me-if-you-can type, bouncing off walls with ideas and banter, pushing us to be present, attentive, and thoughtful all while we're still a bit off balance from the night before.

Simon eyeballs me from across the room. He's looking pekid; the color is draining from his face. He's a pro. He's parrying with Fialkow, but I can see a bead of sweat on his brow and his lips begin to purse like a fish flopped on the side of a stream.

In pops Jill, David's assistant, carrying a smoothie, an awful and nauseating green, like nuclear runoff with specks of burnt ants scattered about.

"Hi!" she beams, a bit too loudly for us to manage, "anyone want one?"