That *exactly* describes my experience at a certain Celtic Festival, though I believe the culprit in that instance was the vin de peche of one J.O. I would say that the whole experience was a memorable one, except for the fact that large chunks of it were precisely non-memorable. The getting helplessly locked in a triangular toilet while nauseous and dizzy, though, remains etched in my mind in a nightmarish way. As, less nightmarishly, does emerging from Pellinor's kindly offered bed at dawn to find him and you and Skordh and Bunn and a few others still up and singing ;-) Ah, we were younger and more resilient then (and in my case less allergic to alcohol, though now I'm beginning to wonder if there isn't a connection...)