'It was pretty much a given that anyone who had applied for a job on the base was trying to escape something'

Looking back, there was a clear omen of what was to come within minutes of my arrival in Antarctica. The first pallet offloaded from the plane that had brought me contained nothing but beer, and was greeted with a great cheer as it was wheeled into the research base where I was to spend the next year.

I'd wanted to visit Antarctica ever since I was a child, but in the end it was a wearying job in Silicon Valley that led me to make the leap. After a particularly bad day at the office, I thought, "Where's the farthest I can go to get away?" To my delight, a quick internet search revealed work was available at three US research stations. I convinced the right people I was the man they needed to look after the liquid nitrogen and helium used as coolants for the radio telescopes at the South Pole Station.

The bar there, probably the most remote on Earth, was called Club 90 South. Despite being surrounded by ice for 800 miles in every direction, and 8,000 miles away from the local bars I knew, it seemed completely familiar to me: there were six bar stools, a scattering of tables and couches, a pool table, TV and music.

One Saturday night soon after I arrived, I walked in and the seat behind the bar was the only one free. Someone said, "Hey, can you get me a beer?" "Do I look like a bartender?" I asked. "Well," he said, "you're behind the bar. Do you know how to mix anything?" I was 26, and had picked up a few tricks at parties. "As a matter of fact, I do," I said. And there I stayed for the rest of the year.

On special occasions, I combined the new role with my job and served what I called "cryogenic cocktails". The first one I made was for a boss who came to a party one evening and asked for a martini. I poured in some nitrogen, blew away the fog and scooped out all the frost-distilled water that was left floating in it, taking the proof of his cocktail up to about 130 (65% abv). He downed it, disappeared and returned with a brace of Swedish researchers. "I want you to make them what you made me," he said.

The temperature outside fell below minus 50, and the base went into lockdown during the six-month night; we lived in near constant darkness, and most of the 200-strong crew left us. The responsibilities of the 58 "winterovers" dwindled, and they were more likely to head to the bar in the evening. Soon I was on duty most nights, mixing drinks into the small hours. There was no chaplain at the base; I think I was the nearest thing to one. People with latent seasonal affective disorder really began to suffer, and I heard many tales of relationships crumbling under the strain of separation.

It was pretty much a given that anyone who had applied for a job on the base was trying to escape something. In Alcoholics Anonymous parlance, it's known as "pulling a geographic". The hope is that by being somewhere else, your existing problems won't apply any more. Sometimes that's true, but I saw a lot of people at the end of the world with nowhere left to run.

I made it a point of honour to be the last person to leave the club each night, and would often find myself pouring whiskey after whiskey for some of the regulars. I learned to spot the signs that someone was likely to wander drunkenly into the Antarctic night, and had heard too many stories of people returning to base with hypothermia and frostbite. My theory was that it's easier to recover from too much drinking than to grow back a missing limb; I was happy only when everyone was safely tucked up and accounted for, even if it meant leaving them passed out on the bar's couch.

I wasn't just a detached observer, though; I was as enthusiastic a drinker as most of the patrons. One drawback was the hangovers: after a particularly heavy session, I would have to nip outside to be sick. Any liquid that came into contact with the ice froze immediately and, if left alone, it would remain so for ever. It was a point of honour to clear up after yourself, which meant chipping away with a pickaxe.

A decade on, I'm a radiation safety specialist, but still take time out to demonstrate my cocktail-mixing craft; liquid nitrogen remains a favourite. I'd go back tomorrow if the opportunity arose. Watching the aurora with a cocktail in your hand isn't an experience you let go of easily.

• As told to Chris Broughton

• This article was amended on 12 August, 2013 to clarify the strength of the cryogenic cocktail served.

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