Picture this: It’s last call at The Drunken Badger, and the pub has descended into glorious chaos. Dave, who swore he could "bench-press a barrel," is now arm-wrestling a very confused barmaid for the last pork scratchings. Meanwhile, Gary—who came in for "one quiet pint"—is leading an off-key choir of rugby lads in a slurred rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, complete with air-guitar solos on a broom. At the bar, Karen (who definitely didn’t start this) is attempting to pay her tab with a handful of foreign coins and a firm handshake. And in the corner, the pub’s ancient, one-eyed dog, Winston, steals a man’s kebab right off his plate, because even he knows the rules of pub law: finders eaters, losers weepers. The bartender sighs, pours himself a shot, and accepts that tonight, once again, the pub has won. Cheers to the beautiful