“We were in the pub one Saturday evening at about 7pm when a really drunk-looking, middle-aged guy came stumbling in, bought a drink, parked himself in a chair in the middle of the pub and promptly fell fast asleep. A guy walking past with a round had a bag of crisps in between his teeth, which fell out as he passed and landed on the drunk’s chest. So comprehensive was his boozy stupor that he didn’t even stir, much to a few onlookers’ amusement. Creeping up, one drinker carefully placed an ashtray over the man’s groin. Still, he slept on. Over the next ten minutes, what can only be described as a collective madness overtook the pub. A nervous, excitable hush fell over the room, as more and more people balanced items of public house detritus on the sleeping goon. Soon, wads of toilet paper burst forth from his pockets; cigarettes were placed behind his ear; beer towels were draped over his shoulders; it was like some grotesque, inverted game of buckaroo with everyone seeing how much stuff could be balanced on one man before he woke up. At one point, someone carried in a giant table parasol from the beer garden and propped it up in between his legs. Cameraphones emerged. Chips were carefully placed in his ears. Sachets of ketchup were slipped in his shoes. And still he slept. Until… a man cleared his throat behind the crowd, and everyone turned around. He motioned at the victim, now barely visible underneath the mountain of junk. ‘You know why he’s so drunk, don’t you?’ asked the newcomer. We shook our heads as one. ‘His son’s just died. Hit and run. He’s been at the funeral al day.’ We left the pub very, very soon after. And haven’t been back since.”