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I drank a full slab with Bon Scott once, and I’m still not entirely convinced it wasn’t a government experiment. The bloke could skull a beer faster than I could open one, and every sentence out of his mouth sounded like the start of either a legendary pub story or a minor criminal charge. By midnight he’d convinced half the bar to start a band, the other half to quit their jobs, and somehow talked a bouncer into lending him a traffic sign “for artistic reasons.” Last thing I remember was Bon standing on a pool table yelling, “If you can still pronounce Worcestershire, you haven’t had enough!” while someone’s uncle played air guitar with a frozen chook.