Note: Before we start it is important to note that it is a bad idea to get/be around England drunk at all, and a downright horrible one to get him beyond level 2. Even if you are in possession or have read this guide it is a dangerous situation to be in, or at the very least, an extremely uncomfortable one. However, if you are determined, I hope that this guide successfully aides you in getting/being around drunk England with out loss of limb or garments.

Level 0:

This the state that most people, including the authors of this guide, prefer England to be in. In this stage he is 100% sober, and (moderately) sane. He will (probably) not kill you or rape you, and is much (moderately) quieter.

Level 1:

At this level England is (relatively) harmless. The worst damage you will (should) suffer is a headache from the nonstop rambling he does. If your goal is (for some unfathomable reason) to get England to this state of inebriation, don't bother. England manages to get himself like this (at least) twice a week; he is an alcoholic after all. It takes about 4 shots of rum, or 3 of scotch, or 5 of a mixture for him to get to this point. Generally he babbles (sobs) about America and he revolution and about how heartbroken he is. (Take that anyway you want) It's actually quite depressing. (Once again, take that anyway you want)

"And then the bloody git had the balls to leave me! Just like that! After everything I'd done for him!" England was waving his 5th shot of rum around in the air, sloshing the liquor everywhere (much to the annoyance of the bartender) but he didn't seem to care. He was way to busy gesturing wildly and rambling on to the only person who would listen to this bullshit; France. France had gone with him just to make sure he didn't get too drunk; plus there was always the off chance that England might be convinced into fucking. But judging by the (very) visible tears running down his face as he gulped down the last of his rum and ordered another shot, that wasn't very likely. England hiccuped, losing the will to continue with his rambles and downed the next shot quickly. That was when France decided it was time to cut him off.

"Come on mon ami, it's time you went home." France slung England's arm over his shoulder, and despite a few mumbled complaints he didn't protest. France called a cab, and just as he was lowering England in to the backseat he mumbled what sounded like 'I loved him so much...'.

Level 2:

At level 2 England will don his infamous naked waiter outfit and begin pole dancing (No; seriously). He will give lap dances to complete strangers, although he is still (generally) aware enough not to sleep with them. France or America (or both, it's happened) can usually persuade him though. He also manages to earn a good bit of money, but good luck trying to take it from him. Unless you want to pay 5 bucks for a lap dance, you should probably stay away. A full bottle of any kind of liquor should be enough to get him like this.

Well, this was...odd. Japan had simply left for some air, he hadn't even been gone for more than 5 minutes, but somehow France, Prussia, and Spain had ended up naked and England was giving...either America or his brother, Japan couldn't quite tell, a lap dance. That was awkward by itself, but England was also rather...unclothed. Rather, he was wearing nothing more than a collar, cuffs and a (very short) apron. Cautiously, Japan decided to approach.

"Err...England-san? How much have you had to drink?"

"Wot was that?" England stopped ricking his hips and glanced over at Japan, his accent horribly slurred by alcohol. "You want a turn or sumthin' mate?"

"No thank you England-san. I really think that you-"

"Bugger off then." Japan blinked and shook his head. Europeans were so strange...

Level 3:

This is the level that France hangs around England's favorite bars for. At this point, England will fuck absolutely anything, including complete strangers and (once) children. He's rather aggressive at this stage, so don't expect to be dominating. To get like this it takes 1 and a half to 2 and a half bottles of liquor, but don't let him consume more than 3 or he might enter level 4. He will spend around 5 seconds looking for someone he knows before shoving his tongue down the nearest person's throat, so keep your distance.

America was pinned to a wall, trying very hard not to moan. The bartender had called him because she thought that maybe England was having a bit too much to drink, and had asked America to pick him up. Not the first time this had happened. This was the first time that he had been immediately jumped and kissed the living daylights out of as soon as he had set foot in the bar. It had taken a moment for America to realize that England was the one kissing him, and that England must have had a lot more to drink since the bartender had called him. After that he had been shoved into the bathroom, and England had made it very clear that he wanted America's clothes off. And that America had no say in the matter. At all.

Level 4:

If England has consumed more than three bottles of any liquor, especially rum, but suddenly seems to be remarkable balanced and clear-headed, run. Run for your life. Especially if you're Spain. After a certain amount of alcohol England will revert back to his pirate years, and trust me, you do not want Captain Kirkland around if you can help it. If you can't get away, prepared to be boarded. Or if you're someone whom he dislikes, prepare to be shanked with whatever he has handy.

When Spain had decided to get a drink that evening he hadn't expected to end up on his knees with a broken beer bottle pressed against his throat. But no, Spain's own personal nightmare had decided to come back to haunt him, and now he was trembling at Captain Kirkland's feet once more, scared for his life. 'Oh Dios, sálvame...' A trickle of blood ran down his neck as the bottle was pressed down harder against his skin. Captain Kirkland chuckled.

"I can feel you trembling crimp."

"S-sí, lo-o soy, s-señor." Spain muttered. When the hell were the police getting here? Someone must have called them by now, right? Blinding pain in his skull told Spain that they better get here soon, or he was a gonner. "¡Mierda!" His head had been smashed into the bar.

"Don't you dare speak your filthy pig language with me boy!"
"S-sorry..."