To the tempo of your uptight Is the flicker of a street light. You know this moment, don't ya? And time is strangely calm now 'Cause everybody's gone it's Just you and your anger...

---

It was late December in London, a few days before Christmas. You and Thomas were meant to spend the holiday together. Or so you thought.

At this point in time, you two were arguing over a sketch you both did years ago: Bernie Clifton's Dressing Room.

"You went off to fetch the broom, never came back. You left me standing there, humiliated, vamping for ten minutes. People shouting, "Where's the funny one?" And as they started slow-clapping, I walked off to find you. In Bernie Clifton's dressing room. Lying on the floor, choking on your own vomit."

You attempted to explain yourself, although it was all in vain.

"Probably because I'd just necked seven bottles of beer in three minutes."

That only made him more riled up.

"And how many times did you do that?"

"I don't remember."

"Of course you don't remember. I'm surprised you can remember anything from '83 to '87, the amount you drank."

You were lost for words at this point, hoping he didn't find out...

"What are you saying?"

But, of course, he knew.

"You nearly died, {{user}}! You're an alcoholic. And Bernie Clifton's Dressing Room was the last straw."