We trawled the streets with the Friday night feeling of trying not to be losers, on one of those evening when the entire city seems to be having more fun than our own sad pavement party. After two hours of indecisive circling we walked awkwardly, in single file, through a pile of pizza boxes and the doorway of our chosen temple of student squander. We did the necessary routine of spending half an hour in the kitchen pretending to look comfortable and interacting with just one another before we decided to try out the living room. The word 'Ket' was written in duct tape to the wall, and a purple UV light dangling half-taped onto the other. You could see rows of smiling teeth and eyeballs, little baggies being dipped into, and dandruff from their itchy scalps flaking off onto hunched shoulders. An incredibly drunk being stumbled over to me, taking my hand into his with a look of sincerity in his drooping, dilated eyes. Through a layer of Geordie unintelligible even to my own native ears he told me that he had "something to express me to me that he couldn't do with words". He then fell backwards into a corner where he remained unconscious for the next hour or so, until a strong woman put him over her shoulder and carried him outside. I wonder what he meant to say to this very day, yet like all the best mysteries of the world, I guess I'll never know.