Gin horizon
The Schwarzschild radius of alcohol consumption, to give it its full name, is the radius of a sphere such that the gravitational force of ones judgment to get up, brush oneself off and go home, is finally and irreversibly outweighed by the nuclear forces of inebriation, meaning it is certain that you will collapse into a black hole of despair by morning. Your only hope — and it isn’t a very edifying one — is to be ejected into a parallel dimension[1] as an incandescent spume of cosmic gas.
The Schwarzschild radius is also the point at which gravitational forces are so strong that no coherent message can escape to the outside world. Memories will be suspended for all eternity from this time.
The radius differs between individuals and by reference to the alcohol in question and can be described by a formula which, when you need it, you will have no hope whatsoever of comprehending let alone being able to manipulate. But know this: pure champagne is very, very bad. The threshold comes quickly, can be crossed without visible warning, and sufferers may only realise hours later during the course of a heated argument about gender equality in an unpleasant cocktail bar on the far side of town[2].