It was perhaps a mistake to visit an alien bar. The room is lit by technicolor lights and cocktails of every colour sit on every table. In the center of it is the Doctor.

A few hours ago he insisted that his timelord metabolism would make it virtually impossible to get drunk. He was –evidently– wrong. Voice slurring slightly and a silly grin on his face, he explains unprompted the mechanics of a Sontaran food compositor to a very confused tenticled alien.