When I hit my limit – usually mid-sentence with the whities and spinny-room nonsense – I tend to stand up sharply and say: “Right, bollocks to this, I’m off”, and then totter out of the pub before anyone can react. Sometimes I have no idea how I get home, or what happens on the journey. I just know that somehow I manage to crash into bed suffering the inimitable Attack Of The Helicopters.
But I have never figured out why it is always hedges. You never fall into plants, or rosebushes, or driveways. Always with the hedges.