I have a vague memory of 'coming-to' sat on my kitchen floor with a bloke I didn't know similarly situated, opposite, with a filthy kebab (everything on, extra chilli sauce) in one hand, lips burning with the chilli, and a big fat cigar half smoked in the other. I don't smoke. Neither did he, so we put the cigars in my plastic pedal-bin.

In the morning Mrs Heurrgh got hold of me by the scruff of the neck and marched me down to the kitchen to explain why there was a) a passed-out bloke in a puddle of wee on the kitchen floor, and b) also the stench of lamb-fat, chilli, stale cigars, and burning plastic. "Dunno. Aliens?!"