Matt and Nick arrived at The Clockface. It was a fairly standard town centre nightclub, but had a few things going for it... they didn't make you dress like a wanker and they would occasionally play They Might Be Giants records on request.

"So", said Matt, "It starts to make sense now, right?"

"Kind of", replied Nick, lying to himself. "You've narrowed it down to one of three pubs in the city centre, or five if I hit the suburbs?"

Nick rang Ben. Ben could see it was Nick calling, and Ben was with a girl.

"Nick! Stop calling me, you fucking crackhead."

"I'll assume you're with a girl and thus play along. Put me on speakerphone"

One can of lager, a quiche, one of those ghastly all-day breakfasts in tins and a change of trousers later, Nick started trying to piece all this together. Had he been out? Was he still out? Was this the dream? Why all the flashbacks? Should he call Rachel? Should he call Matt? Where was Ben in all of this? Would Ben know who the fuck that girl was? Why did he keep pissing himself? Where had all the gin gone? But mainly, why the fuck had he eaten one of those ghastly all-day breakfasts in tins?

Outside the flat was odd - with each step, Nick began to remember coming home. He could vaguely recall falling up the steps, knocking over the plant pot and dropping his keys into a puddle. For the bits he couldn't remember, there was a helpful trail of kebab-shop-salad and chips, and for the bits he hadn't managed to map out, there was always the lingering smell of piss to guide him. For a full minute, he stopped and pondered the notion that primitive pissheads had used a similar system to find their way home. Half way into the minute, the smell became overbearing and he correctly predicted that he would be sick into the garbage chute.