Here you are, walking into a pub in Bray, because your boyfriend’s best friend called you up saying it’s time to pick him up. Andrew is a sad drunk. He’s sat in the corner of the pub, crammed in a corner with a half empty pint on the table in front of him, looking like he could cry. His face is flushed, he’s got pouty lips, and his eyes are squinted in a way that looks like he’s about to cry.

He doesn’t even look up when you approach, too busy drowning in his woe.