MY first editor was a well-spoken, tweed-suited English gentleman who was the very personification of politeness and fair play.

A former prisoner in one of the Stalags during the Second World War, he rarely used Christian names, instead preferring the prefixes "Mr", "Mrs" or "Miss". Such was our reverence for him that we often addressed him as "Sir".

As you can see, this was a long time ago.

One day he cast a beady, sky-blue eye my way and said: "Mr Phillpott - are you one of the Toby Phillpotts?"

What the deuce was he talking about. "Why yes," I lied. "I am."

To my red-faced embarrassment he caught me out immediately. I had never heard of the aforesaid Toby - the legendary 18th Century Staffordshire drinker who gave his name to the Toby Jug. My pathetic lie was quickly detected, but gentleman that he was, the editor refrained from further humiliation of his 16-year-old apprentice.

Anyway, let's get to the point. The Christmas season will soon be upon us - so what better excuse could there be for today's topic to be the subject of liquid refreshment.

And as this is the time of goodwill to all men - well, some - I have decided that this epistle should be about a dictionary of drink-related terms that I recently discovered in a book called The Pub in Literature.

As you know, Phillpott is a paragon of virtue and propriety, not to mention sobriety - but as a lover of words, he cannot resist sharing this glossary with you all.

Remember, this column is written in an underground laboratory deep within my Battenhall fastness. Nothing that appears below should be tried at home. So here it is... a selected A to not-quite Z of the imbiber's bible.

Consider it my present to you all this Christmas. So...

A is for Aleyard, a trumpet-shaped glass vessel, exactly a yard in length, the narrow end being closed and expanded into a large ball. B stands for Butler's Ale, Dr Butler being a physician to James I who invented a sort of medicated ale. It used to be sold at houses that had the Butler's Head for a sign.

So to C, which is for Costrel, a small coopered cask, usually with a chain handle for carrying beer to the fields... then there's D for Dog's Nose, a warm porter, moist sugar, gin and nutmeg... and E's for Egg Ale Recipe, a noisome concoction comprising 12 gallons of ale, the gravy of eight pounds of beef, 12 eggs, a pound of raisins, oranges, spice and sack.

And if you think that's a bit heavy, try your hand at F for Flap-dragoning. Apparently, in Elizabethan times, it was customary for hardened drinkers to put some inflammable substance on the surface of their liquor and then swallow the blazing draught at a gulp. Such a beverage was known as a flap-dragon. Phew. I bet that burned the hairs off your chest.

We now move to G for Geneva after the French for juniper, from which gin is made and then H for Hush-shop, a private house in which beer was brewed and sold. Not to be excluded, I stands for Isinglass, the swim bladder of fish - especially sturgeon - that was dried, rolled and made into a jelly to clarify or "fine" beer.

Just one entry under J and that's Jackback, a large underback into which several underbacks drain. I'll tell you what an underback is in a moment. However, to press on, K is for Keeler, a shallow, coopered tub used for cooling beer or milk and L is for Lamb's Wool, a 16th Century blend of ale with roasted crab or apple. There is a reference to this drink in A Midsummer Night's Dream... while M is for Mead, made

from honey and dating from Roman times.

Navarre is a wine of the Basses Pyrenees, fashionable in the 17th Century, and O is for Ofener Hungarian red wine, popular during the Stuart period. Now, stick with it... P stands for Potheen, an illicit Irish spirit that can be fed to cattle to cure coughs (!).

Q is for Queen of Hungary's Water - intrigued, I'm sure - and then it's time for a good old rum and milk, which is associated with Palm Sunday drinking. Or how about S for Shrub, a drink composed of acid fruit juice, sugar and rum or brandy?

But we're nearly through the alphabet now, and here's good old Toby Philpot (various spellings, nothing new there) who has bequeathed his name to mean a beer jug. On to underback, and that's a coopered, tiled or planked vessel fitting under the mash tun to take the worts as they drain. Yes, but what do "tun" and "worts" mean... shhhh! Stop complicating things.

There's one entry under V, and that's Vernage, a sweet Italian wine, and then it's W for Wassail. This word, from being used to signify a pledge or greeting, eventually came to denote feasting in general.

There's just one more now, nothing for X or Z, and that's Yeste, the old name for yeast. And how appropriate, for without that substance none of the above would have been possible.

Incidentally, there are various legends concerning the aforesaid Toby. Some say that his skeleton was exhumed by a grave robber and a drinking vessel made from his skull - then there there is the broadside ballad Toby Philpot And The Storm.

Quite what heroic role Toby plays is a bit of a mystery... perhaps he drinks all the ship's rum, thereby lightening the ballast, thus saving the entire crew from a watery death. To add to the confusion, there is at least one Staffordshire pottery company manager who

insists it was not "Toby" but "toper".

But this is, of course, all academic. For as far as I know, we are not related. Perish the thought that I should share the DNA with a man who quite obviously didn't know when to replace the cork in the bottle. One light ale a year, to be taken just before Christmas dinner, should be enough for anyone, that's my motto.

Nevertheless, I still have this problem. For despite my earlier lies and subsequent denials, I confess I sometimes detect a likeness when examining a Toby Jug. Maybe it's the varnished face, three-cornered hat and handle stuck between the shoulder blades - or is it knives - that give the game away. I just don't know.

I suppose I could check with Evening News wine writer Philippe Boucheron but he's a grape rather than a grain man. However, I do know one thing - old roustabout Toby might have been a champion drinker, but when it came to manners, he would have been no match for my old editor.

For when it came to being a gentleman, my former boss could certainly have knocked our 18th Century carouser into his cocked hat. Even if I didn't know what he'd been talking about...