There is a moment every Saturday night when a perfectly ordinary man has three pints too many and suddenly decides he is irresistible.
This is usually around 11:47pm.
Five minutes earlier he was happily discussing football with Dave. Now he's looking across the bar with the confidence of a man who has apparently forgotten every social interaction he has ever had.
"She's looking at me."
She isn't.
She's looking at the television behind him.
But this is Saturday night, and alcohol has removed the final obstacle between optimism and complete delusion.
The first problem is mobility. The drunk man approaches his intended target with the elegant precision of a shopping trolley with one broken wheel. His trousers feel tighter, the floor appears slightly inclined and his carefully rehearsed opening line has vanished somewhere between the bar and the dance floor.
He arrives.
"Alright?"
It's the conversational equivalent of throwing a brick through a window.
She says hello.
He interprets this as enormous progress.
Within thirty seconds he has explained his job, his car, where he lives and the fact that he's "not normally like this", which is unfortunate because he is very clearly exactly like this.
Then comes the crucial moment.
She says, "I'm actually just waiting for my friends."
This sentence has been responsible for the emotional collapse of millions of British men.
The sober interpretation is straightforward: she is waiting for her friends.
The drunk interpretation is considerably more complicated.
Perhaps she wants him to wait too.
Perhaps she is testing him.
Perhaps she wants him to demonstrate persistence.
Perhaps this is, in fact, an elaborate romantic puzzle.
It is not.
She is waiting for her friends.
Eventually the friends arrive, and suddenly there are four women standing together looking at him with the quiet concern normally reserved for a man attempting to assemble furniture without instructions.
He retreats to the bar.
"Didn't fancy her anyway."
This is the traditional final sentence of the failed Saturday-night operation.
He orders another drink to celebrate not being rejected.
By 1am, however, the situation has become genuinely philosophical.
He has now approached nobody successfully, his shirt has somehow come untucked, his phone battery is at 9%, and he has spent £74 achieving precisely nothing.
Yet he remains convinced the night can still turn around.
"Plenty of time."
There isn't.
By 2am, everyone attractive has either left, paired off, disappeared into the smoking area or is actively avoiding eye contact.
The drunk man remains.
He is now dancing alone.
Not deliberately.
He simply hasn't realised the people around him stopped dancing several minutes ago.
Eventually the lights come on.
This is the great equaliser of British nightlife.
Under nightclub lighting, everyone discovers they have made some questionable decisions.
The man who believed himself to be George Clooney at midnight suddenly resembles a damp accountant who has lost his coat.
Outside, he lights a cigarette he doesn't normally smoke and delivers the final analysis to his mate.
"Women just aren't interested anymore."
His mate, who has watched the entire evening unfold, says nothing.
Because sometimes friendship means allowing a man to preserve the final remaining fragment of his dignity.
They walk towards the kebab shop.
The operation has failed.
The night is over.
But next Saturday is only six days away.
And by 11:47pm, he will once again be absolutely certain that this time, he's got game.