It's 10 p.m. in Croydon, A grim suburb south of London, and the locals are indulging in the standard rituals of an English Friday night. Two guys with broad smiles and droopy eyes stagger into the road, arms outstretched to embrace any lucky target. Gaggles of young women bounce in and out of the 19 bars that line the main stretch, their skyscraper heels giving good clearance over puddles of vomit. Huddled around a cash machine, glammed up in gold-sequined headbands and lace gloves, Laura and her friends are gearing up for a big night. Are they going to get drunk?...
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