The Greeks had a word for it. So did the Romans, the Aztecs, the Chinese and the Swedes. Every culture that embraced the mixed blessings of alcoholic beverages had at least one word for "drunk."

The more advanced the culture, the more words they had to mark the different stages of the process of intoxication -- from a warm glow to face-down in the back alley.

I have been collecting words that mean "drunk" for quite a while. At last count I had more than 600 -- enough to fill this space if I just strung them together. But I'll spare you that. I'll find a pattern, and choose a few favourites.

The pattern I like best is a bell-curve. It traces the upward surge of alcoholic exhilaration, followed, if self-control or a good friend are both absent, with the downward slide into decrepitude.

There's a T-shirt proudly worn by tourists returning from Mexico that reads "One tequila, two tequila, three tequila -- FLOOR!!" The Romans were more sophisticated than that; they counted six stages before finding it necessary to take an enforced nap.

Ebriolus was the first stage. Just one martini, a nice glow, thinking you will go home early. Next came ebriolatus -- all right, just a couple more, I deserve it.

Then came ebriacus -- another one, or two, the evening is shaping up nicely. Now we're at the top of the bell curve: the rest is down.

Vinolentus meant fully loaded -- the legs are shaky, the eyes don't focus too well. With vino malus you'd be in a bad way -- your body is protesting, it's off to the vomitorium. And the end of the road, for this night at least, is vino mersus. Out of it. Obliterated. Dead drunk.

Running an eye over my sea of drunk words I can find very few that belong to the beginning of the curve -- the happy side. Elevated is one; so are balmy, euphoric, mellow, feeling no pain. There's also sap-happy, fuzzled, woozy and shikkered (and dozens more like them). They suggest that the drinker is beginning to fall apart, but is as yet in no great danger to himself or society.

The majority of the words in my collection definitely belong on the downside. Some make fun -- cruel fun -- of the drinker's inability to move on two legs. Tangle-footed, decks awash, rat-legged, knocked for a loop, four on the floor, legless, all say in different ways that the drinker has his wobbly boots on.

Others dwell on the mental incapacity that comes with inebriation. Our drinking friend could be zombied; with the fairies; bladdered, blitzed and blasted; floating, fogmatic or obliviated, perhaps all at once.

And other words take a farewell look at the slumped figure that was once a man. Clobbered, paraletic, slaughtered, smashed, scronched, fractured, hammered and fleemered.

Come to think of it, just about any word, in the right context and tone of voice, can be made to mean "drunk." Try this exercise. "Your Uncle George was really ....... last night." Pick a word at random, put it in the blank, and see what you get. Try corrugated. Or buttered-on-both-sides. Or turbo-charged. Or wickered. Or splattered. See what I mean?

Among all the ugliness, my collection contains some well-turned phrases.

"Locked out of your mind" is from Ireland. "Having a close look at the footpath" is from Australia. "Williamed" comes from Belfast, and nobody seems to know what it means, other than drunk. No country claims credit for "Boiled as an owl" or "Brahms and Liszt."

"Calling God on the big white telephone" comes from the U.S.

"Saying hello to Mr. Armitage" is the English version of the same thought, and I had to ask my live-in interpreter of all things U.K. to explain.

It seems that Armitage is a leading manufacturer of toilet fittings. He suggested a Canadian version -- "Saying hello to American Standard."

Something seems to have been lost in translation.