A tradition that has lived on, through generations upon generations, that will never get old. True friends and strong bonds are things that will never die, because throughout the human race you will always find a few folk who will stand by you and love you if you look hard enough; and there was the timeless tradition of how to find them. All throughout human history, men became friends; and these friends would express their platonic love for one another by collecting together and sharing meals and drink. Thus it was that the night out in the pub was born, and with it many cherished bonds between brothers and an even more cherished boom in the beer production industry. So, Douglas Richardson had decided to honour this time-brewed tradition; here were in Shannon, they had two days, and he felt that he might be able to loosen up Martin Crieff. Actually, it was more a detached scientific curiosity that, if given enough alcohol, Martin might actually start talking to women or develop a sense of humour or just stop being Martin-y for a bit. Douglas was usually right, but to avoid a paradox, there was going to be one outcome; Douglas was seldom wrong, but Martin was even more seldom lucky. This paradox played itself out to have, for one of the first times in Douglas' life, a bad consequence. The consequence was now being shoved out the door of a small Irish pub, with his troubles and his good sense drowned in alcohol.

Several shots of vodka (he'd regret playing that drinking game the next morning) and countless pints had certainly improved his spirits, though certainly not his motor skills. He walked, well, drunkenly forward singing a song about a lamp and giggling like a child.

"Come on, Martin, hotel's this way."

"We should..." the man waggled a finger. "We sh'go sleep in the...th'plane. Thas good fun. Tha'was good fun...last time. Like a sleepover."

"Perhaps." grunted Douglas, feeling suddenly more sober than he was.

Martin found this lyrical. "Like a sleepooo-vveerrr, p'raps...m'dad never let me have sleepovers."

"Did he really." the first officer wondered which would be more inconvenient; dragging an unconscious Martin to a hotel or listening to him being drunk before they found one.

"My dad never thought I'd be a pilot. An' now- an' now- I'm a pilot! Y'see this, da, I'm a pi-lot!"

"Do you think he's going mad?" Arthur whispered.

"A night of sleep and a morning of intense pain will see him back to normal."

"D'you know, Douglas n' Arthur," said Martin, "Tha' you're my best friends?"

"Are we?" Arthur smiled.

"M'best friends!" he slung an arm around the steward. "An' thanks for bein' so lovely n' loyal n'...and...sexy."

"Oh," and for the first time, Arthur was uncomfortable with a compliment.

"I don't have any friends."

"I'll bet you don't." Douglas was no longer listening, and instead looking for a taxi or a hotel that could lead them to idiot-free salvation.

"Why do people never think m' the c-cap-tain? Is i'because..." he stumbled a bit. "Is'i because I'm fat?"

"I'm sure it is."

"Only friends," said Martin sadly, then sloppily hugged Douglas, who patiently shoved him away to keep walking. "Douglas, I think you're my favourite."

"Arthur, he's drunk." the favourite said to a disappointed Arthur. "He doesn't mean-"

"I don't mean!" Martin shouted rather too happily. "You look very...beaut-i-ful, Douglas."

"Do I."

"So do you, Carolyn. No, oth'one. Arthur."

"Err," said Arthur, who was learning a great deal about why not to become an alcoholic.

"Would you like a threesome?"

There was a difficult pause.

Douglas and Arthur- who, surprisingly, seemed to follow- exchanged horrified glances with each other, and then directed them at Martin. The aforementioned saw a bench which diverted his colleagues from his sexual attraction for a moment as he kissed it lightly, then fell asleep on it.

There was a second difficult pause.

"Shall we go?" said Douglas.

"Please let's."

They walked on.

"Do you ever worry about him?" Arthur came out with rather suddenly; it seemed alcohol had an opposite effect on the steward's brain than it did on Martin's, which was probably for the best.

"No."

"Don't you?"

"For all his whining," the first officer gave a last distasteful glance at the snoring pilot on the bench, "I think he's fairly happy.