Slater Street, Liverpool. Home of cheap drinks and cheaper music. Ben Sherman shirts thrust rapidly at Jane Norman dresses. Optimism, hitched to ever-increasing alcohol levels, soars. You take what enjoyment you can, push it as far as possible, ride the weekend, surf its crest. Yet for every success there are always casualties. Those who took it a drink too far. Those that wipeout at 3am on some Saturday morning. Can't even keep their grip on the greasy, gristly burger they bought with the hope of some form of redemption. Liverpool. Or anywhere.