When spouting those fateful words: “I think you’ve had enough so I’m afraid we won’t be serving you any more alcohol,” the beer, then wine, then whisky, then Tequila-quaffer takes some offence.
After slurring that they are fine while slumped, face first, in a puddle of sticky god-knows-what, the booze-fuelled beast then feels the need to start shouting obscenities to anyone who cares (no one) and threatening to report you.
Feel free because I am in the right you fiend! This continues until it gets to the point when you have to say, “look pal, it’s best you leave.”
Rotating meat emporium
And off they jolly well trot, tail between their legs and on to the rotating meat emporium.