Perhaps it's time for a rehash of my favourite raspberry anecdote from when I worked as a doorman.

We used to have three or four wheelchair users who came into the club despite it not being very disabled friendly. Two of us would lift these chaps, wheelchair and all up a series of steps and into the bar area. No need to let them down again as they were brilliant at tipping the chair back and bumping their way out. One night myself and a colleague were positioned with hands folded in front of us as you do in the recessed door to the club at the end of a fairly long downhill pavement when two of our regulars appeared at the top of the street. Now the trouble with these fuckers was not fighting or smoking on the dancefloor (these were pre-tobacco-ban days) but the fact they were absolutely fucking hopeless at holding their drink. Three shandies and they be mullered. and it was immediately obvious our prospective clients had consumed quite a bit more than the required amount and were seriously over-refreshed. So much so they'd taken upon themselves to race to the door.

Like watching You've Been Framed or Carlton Cole with only the keeper to beat there was a certain inevitability about what happened next, especially as the pavement narrowed towards the club. The pair of them came hurtling down the hill only for one to bump the other, lose control, edge one wheel over the kerb and wipe out all over the road. Even better, the other one let out a whoop of triumph at his mate's distress before himself losing it and cunting himself face-first across the tarmac. My mate and I daren't even so much look at each other as we spent the next quarter of an hour clearing up the wreckage, putting their clothes back on (they'd both lost their shoes and trousers and one his cowboy hat) before calling for reinforcements and going for a break.

Only then did we dare make eye contact - and spent the next half an hour sobbing with laughter...