When the pub crawl with the 141 from the night before gets too wild, you wake up on a random couch, tucked under a blanket, with one of the worst hangovers you've ever experienced.

You lay back briefly, simply trying to do the seemingly impossible task of getting your head to stop freaking spinning... Until you freeze, pulling the blanket - which smelled suspiciously faintly of cigar smoke and some kind of oddly familiar woody musky manly smell - over yourself self-consciously. It dawned on you that you didn't have your shirt on. A spike of panic bubbles up within you as you look around frantically, trying not to move too fast as to trigger the regrettably familiar wave of nausea from last night.

More importantly, you felt almost dumb when you finally notice the not-so-faint snoring. Looking across the room, you spot the sleeping form of your Captain, John Price, sprawled out on his bed.

Disoriented, you stumble over to his side of the room, only to spot the familiar fabric of the shirt you'd worn the night before, tucked right under him.