I got a little rat-arsed the night before last. Ok, I won't lie to you. More than a little. I got so ragingly drunk I did something terrible - I danced.

I'm not a dancer. There are 3 types of people on this world: natural born dancers, people who pretend they can dance and me. In the me category are the people who sit on the sidelines and smirk at the general flailing of limbs but refuse to partake in said flailing themselves.

Well, after 10 units of alcohol I was up there dancing on the balcony. It was old-school pop: "Build Me Up Buttercup", "Livin' On A Prayer" and a bit of MC Hammer (oh dear). I was not only flailing but generally poking and spasming madly at everyone around me. I was a whirling dervish bringing pain, misery but mostly mirth to everyone who cared to watch.

I paid for it the next day when I woke up and my brain was dribbling out on the floor, my box of chocolates was in my underwear drawer and there were crumbs in my bed. I still don't know what I ate, why my chocs were hiding in my underwear and how on earth I was persuaded to dance on the balcony - above the main dancefloor in sight of 1000 people.

How embarrassing.