I'm coming at this story about six weeks late (it was mentioned in the Guardian's blog of the annual Brit Awards), but hey... Let's just say I have some sympathy for icon of my late teen years Paul Weller -- former leader of The Jam and the Style Council. Sympathy in the sense of "I have been there." Drunk. In Prague. In winter. The warm wine purchased from the streets to fend off the chill is enough to wreck some people. (Not mention the colossal next day hangover it causes.) But follow that up by finding a cozy corner in a warm pub in Old Town and alternating shots and lagers, and you may be in for a very surreal night tram ride back to the hostel.
But for all my many hijinks (and there have been many), I can honestly say that I've never ended up where we see Britain's angriest man from 1978-1982 -- passed out in the street. Or crashing a birthday party and joining in a chorus or three with a stupid pub singer who doesn't know he's singing with a drunk Paul Weller. Yikes.