“My worst night out ever was the time I ripped my new Newcastle United shirt. First day of the season, out on the lash in Oxford, we called a mate’s house but got no answer. So I climbed onto some railings to throw gravel at his window. Only, predictably, I slipped, fell astride the fence, and one spike tore right through my £50 Toon shirt. Fuck, I thought and wandered off to the nightclub. Grumpy as hell. I then proceeded to get gale-force drunk. Only the next morning did I realise what had actually happened. Stood in the shower, I was alarmed to spot a 5p-sized congealed blood plug fall out of my ball sack. Turns out the railing had gone clean through, piercing (luckily) just between my nuts, and I’d gone into medical shock. The last thing I remember was a torrent of blood slicking down my legs, before I woke up in a hospital bed. With eight stitches and a dull ache.”