You have to go on the stag do. You've known the stag for years, you were at school together and although you've lost touch and haven't spoken properly for ages, there is no way you can get out of it, he's just so damn excited about the whole thing. You meet at seven on a Friday, in the kind of bar you haven't been to since you were twenty and hated even back then. It's all a bit awkward because there are his work mates, his uni mates, lads from his Thursday night football, the brother of the bride to be, nobody really knows anyone else, and you can't hear anything anyway because the music is too loud. You make an effort to chat to people, to appear friendly and willing, but the night has hardly started and already you're exhausted at the effort required to pretend you're having a good time. To make matters worse you've been told to wear shoes, because it will be a late one and you are going to a club, a club that only lets you in if you're wearing shoes and a shit shirt. Drinking games commence. Seven hours later you are in the alley at the side of the club, throwing up onto a greasy pizza box, sweating and freezing at the same time. You get a cheer from a passing group. Someone slaps you on the back and shouts, 'Good lad!' Your stomach hurts and you lean against the wall of the club to rest before the next bout of vomiting begins. The wall is pulsating into your back, the music still trying to get you, even out here in your illness. You strain your ears to hear what generic, machine constructed, horrible piece of boastful shit they are playing now. Then you realise. It's any song off this album.