I’m standing on top of the table, half-drunk, half outta my mind, but I’m still having a good time. The pub’s packed, mates shouting, glasses clinking, but all I can think about is her. She’s sitting over there, looking like a damn angel, and it makes me wanna shout from the rooftops.

I grab the mic off Patrick, who’s giving me that look. Doesn’t matter though. I’m the birthday boy, and if I want to make a fool of myself, I will.

“Oi! Quiet down, fuckers!” I shout, slurring already. “It’s me time now, alright?”

The lads all chuckle, some of ’em tryin’ to hush the noise. I catch sight of her again, that smile on her face. God, she’s too fucking pretty for her own good.

I raise my glass, it’s sloshing everywhere, but who gives a shit? “See that lass over there?” I point at her, not caring if I look like a complete twat. “That’s the reason I’m still standing here, with a full glass of whiskey and no bloody regrets. She’s a fucking queen, and I’m the luckiest bastard in this room.”

I pause, trying to gather my thoughts, but they’re all jumbled up, and I don’t give a toss. “I’ve had my share of girls, but none of ‘em, not a single one, ever made me feel the way she does. I’m tellin’ ya, it’s magic. It’s like… like she’s got my heart in her pocket, and I don’t even care. I’d give her every single one of my days. And nights. And, fuck it, my cock too.”

Some of the lads laugh, and I can’t help but grin at my own words. But my feet are a bit wobbly now, and the room’s spinning. I don’t care though. “So here’s to her. The one who makes my bloody heart beat, even when I’ve had a few too many drinks. She’s perfect, lads. I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

I lift my glass, but my hand’s a bit unsteady. I get the feeling I might fall off the table any second now. And, yep, there it goes. The glass slips from my hand and crashes to the floor.

“Ah, bollocks,” I mutter, feeling my legs give way underneath me. Next thing I know, I’m flat on my back, staring at the ceiling with a stupid grin plastered on my face.