More a case of confirmed identity.
I was at a tube station, somewhat drunk at around midnight. There were the traditional East Central Line midnight crew, the chavs with the trophies for the night, the wannabe WAGs and the complete pissheads (one of whom I am proud, nay, honoured to be).
One of the pissheads looked familiar, so I went over to see who he was. I didn't quite recognise him, but I sparked up conversation anyway (rule 78.b of the London Underground. You don't talk to anyone else, unless you're pissed. Even if you are pissed, they need to be exactly equipissed.)
This fellow then rambles on about how depressed he is, he wants to get into a fight, he's pissed off, his life is a dead end, etc. and I think "balls." I've got another 20 minutes of this before I get home.
Desperate to get out of this sticky situation I ask "Errm, are you ** from *******?"
"Yes I am mate! But I want to die."

20 more fucking minutes.
(Toucan - http://www.titmonday.com, Sun 3 Jun 2007, 23:10, Reply)