So you’ve decided that you’re hitting the town. You’ve come off the phone, banged the Top 40 playlist on, and the shower has been running for a good ten minutes as you peruse your pathetic excuse of a wardrobe. Quick call back to your brother in arms ..
“Is it a t-shirt, or a shirt do?”
“We’re only going town?”
“Is it Hollister or an Abercrombie sort of night?”
“Well I’ve just won £100 today so Jager train is coming”
Fred Perry it is.
So you’re now waiting for the taxi who forever is saying he’s round the corner, but more accurately is at least a 3 day stroll away. You’ve emptied a good half bottle of Dior on your chops, and in doing so have increased the chances of you spontaneously catching fire by a good 40%.
The taxi ride to the pre-drinking session contains the same, monotone conversations about the weather, how dead town is these days, and how shite Everton are. (Taxi drivers know nothing about football.)
You arrive at your destination, and step into a room filled with boisterous bodies, half empty bottles of whiskey, an open crate of Bud, and two mates almost at blows over a game of FIFA.
Confrontations break out over choice of music, and again you settle on a UK Top 40 playlist as neutral ground. It seems the charts offers a playlist of music that is free from a challenge of bias. Even though it’s full of shit. Later on in the evening there’s always that one giddy mate who tries to put some obscure Oasis B-Side on, or a Catfish & The Bottlemen track. They’re greeted with a stare of pure bewilderment and disgust from the entire room. People physically stop what they’re doing to question your choice. However a few seconds later Justin Bieber is back on and the hustle and bustle of the pre drinking session returns to relative normality.
For those reading, who know me, I am that guy.
You all sit refreshing Snapchat stories, attempting to work out which poor, unsuspecting female is where.
“Can we go Spoons first, she’s there.”
Absolutely not, you pathetic mess.
“She’s with all the girls though.”
Spoons it is.
So the time approaches for you to arrive fashionably late to the carnival that is town. Your mate bursts into to tears as he clutches a phone to his ear, attempting to work out the complex mathematics surrounding how many taxis to order.
“Can you all stand still for fuck sake, how many is there?”
There’s 7 of us
“How many taxis?”
One. 7 seater …
So the GCSE in Maths comes in handy, and the squad assembles. The last bits of matt clay are applied to hair, and you raid your mates bedroom for more Dior. (It really is an addiction. I don’t receive any advertising revenue for clarity). There’s a hotly contested race to our carriage, as you don’t want to be the dickhead stuck in the front seat.
I’m usually that dickhead.
You sit and monotonously discuss the weather, how dead town is, and how shit Everton are, as the gang are having the time of their lives in the back. It’s soul-destroying to know that jokes that will be a recurring theme of the night are currently being created in the back of the party bus.
You’re half way to your destination, when something hits you. A sudden realisation of horror. You demand the driver pull over as soon as possible. The lads stop their carry on, and suddenly their attention turns to me, bundling myself out of the taxi, and jogging up the road. 5 minutes pass and you climb back into the taxi with a sigh of relief. You’re greeted with questionable looks and a few choicey phrases. But as you toss a pack of chuddy in the back, like a mouse to a snakepit, you’re suddenly hailed as the new King in the North.
It’s not long before another weighted responsibility the front seat brings is upon you. Payment. You settle on a sum of £10 sterling for the lift. Now the challenge is having to somehow extract this from the non responsive hooligans in the back. Amongst the jokey animal noises, and rather explicit descriptions of girls, your pathetic voice floats.
“£2 each lads.”
You repeat this 11 times before the message is received in the back.
Now I’m aware there are 7 passengers, however the extra £4 will purchase me a pint for the troubles and stress endured from such a responsibility.
“You pay for mine and I’ll get you a drink inside mate”
The immortal words. The words of a trickster with absolutely no intention to reimburse you for such an act of friendship.
The car halts at your destination. You manage to somehow pay the driver with a £5 note and a collection of every denomination of coin available in Britain. The taxi driver collars you as it seems one of the lads has decided it’s a good time to get rid of that 2 Euro coin he’s had in his wallet for about 7 years.
So you all stumble through the door to the palace of wonder that is Wetherspoons. You spot something that human beings throughout time have found nigh impossible to discover. You rub your eyes in disbelief.
“Is that a free booth?”
Jesus Christ it is.
“Get over there now. I’ll get your drink”
Your mate charges across the room. Knocking pensioners over tables, smashing cocktail pitchers over, physically assaulting anybody who has their eyes set on our declared table.
You see him triumphantly give the thumbs up as he sticks a flag on the table, proclaiming this here land as our own.
So, you’re out, the fun can begin. The 6 of you share stories of the week, whilst also keeping an eye on the table next to you. Hen party. I say 6 of you, as one of the group is ploughing a weeks wage into some bandit.
He returns to provide for his peers, as he wields a tray of shots, like a male lion returning to his young with the carcass of an antelope.
“Dropped it lads. £100. Easy.”
Yeah but what did you put in?
Of course you did son.
The night develops. You move from bar to bar, slowly increasing in confidence with each move. Girls, that from a sober perspective seem unattainable, become game meat. With each passing public house, the urge to have a little jive increases marginally.
It’s only a couple of hours in when you notice your 7 are actually down to six. After many a missed call, and attempting to put together clues surrounding one troops disappearance, you come to the realisation that his ex was in the previous bar. Bets on where he’s sleeping tonight. Soft arse.
The 6 drops to 5, as one poor soul hears the 6 words guaranteed to strike fear into every trapped male. 6 words that test a mans character, integrity and loyalty in one fell swoop. A female voice is heard on his phone uttering the words …
“You stay out, I don’t mind”
He falls to his knees and sobs into the £50 he’s just withdrawn as he accepts that his night is over. The group help the fallen brother to his feet and comfort him. He’s still sobbing as the door shuts on his taxi, and the driver begins to tell him how shit Everton are, as he heads home to return underneath the thumb whence he came.
The 5 head into the part of the night where all logical cognitive function is disregarded. It’s like the scene from Willy Wonka where Gene Wilder drags you in a tunnel of psychedelic wonder. It’s a Dudley Boyz vs The Hardy Boyz in a no-holds-barred encounter. Because you know someone is going to end up falling through a table at some point.
You move from pints onto the stronger stuff. Whiskey corrupts a mans soul. This is evident when you and your designated wingman are attempting to converse with a rather attractive female when out of the corner of your eye, you see your mate dancing, with a stool on his head. You’re onto a winner with this bird as she begins to tell you what she does for a living, but all you can see is your mate now attempt to go to the toilet, still with a stool on his head. Your female conquest grows weary, doesn’t get why your other mate is doing dragon noises in your ear, and disappears into the night.
That’s when you know it’s over. All decorum is out of the window. Anything goes. You’re all absolutely fucked. Beyond the point of all reproach. It’s difficult to articulate such a state of mind, so I shall provide a case study below.
The 5 reduces to 4, as this state of pure disarray provokes one pal to order in some Mexican marching dust, also more affectionately known as cocaine. He’s ejected as I attempt to persuade the bouncer that the white smudge just below his nostrils is actually some medicinal herbal powder. This, surprisingly, is unsuccessful.
The night is edging ever closer to its end, so it’s time to hit the club. £7 in. You silently weep as your hand is marked with a stamp that will stain the skin for at least a week. You approach the bar, without the slightest inclination of which alcoholic substance is now charged with the responsibility of allowing you to forget everything that is about to happen. The bartender looks on irritably as you request every deal they have. It’s usually about £6 for 27 WKD’s, so you settle for the alcopops.
The first glass of water of the evening makes an appearance, as the bar does it best to prop up a man who has far exceeded all expectations with alcohol consumed. You realise however that you are in fact down to 3, as it surfaces that the tight arse of the group simply refused to pay the £6 entry fee, and proceeds to walk home to save a taxi fee. He never did get you that pint for the taxi fare. Bastard.
A purple smokescreen descends as with great concentration you form a sort of trio dance troupe. It’s like a scene fresh out of Kevin and Perry Go Large, Derude’s “Sandstorm” provokes you to throw shapes that in other cultures would land you 24 whips as punishment.
It’s then time for some whips of your own to be thrown out. A rival tribe find it appropriate to throw a cheeky little shoulder out there, as they attempt the pry the girls you’ve been cracking on with, free from your grasp. A polite shove is returned.
One moment I’m drunkenly discussing the pro’s of a world run by Jeremy Corbyn with the girl I now intend to marry, when a fist finds its way into my face. You hear another dragon noise, but this time it’s slightly more sinister, as your mate returns the favour. A brawl ensues.
I being of somewhat sensible mind, attempt to split such a confrontation up. Can’t we just settle this over a nice, civilised SkittleBomb. Another punch to the face however, and I’m delivering a People’s Elbow to some scruff wrestling with one of my lot on the ground. I temporarily take the form of UFC Hall of Famer Anderson Silva, as I attempt to Crane Kick one of the rival lads. However it doesn’t take long before I come to the realisation that I am in fact not Anderson Silva, and am flat on my arse after tripping over a bin.
The scuffle disperses as bouncers arrive on the scene. Remarkably I’m allowed to stay on the premises, along with one other. We’re down to 2.
After reassurances that our unfortunate 3rd musketeer is safely in a taxi home, myself and my remaining compadre stumble to a seated area.
We then engage in a conversation most males at the end of an evening seem to find themselves in, and is known to blow the mind of many a leading academic.
“You know what mate, I fucking love you”
I love you too mate
“No, but you know what I mean, I love you”
Yeah, mate I know exactly what you mean. I just love you.
Suddenly, without warning, the unnecessarily bright house lights are put on, as the bouncers sweep in to clear the premises out of pissed up misfits.
You’re swept onto the street with a rising sun offering sobering perspective. It’s 6am. Six o’clock in the morning. You glance around at your peers as they look with the same disgust at the unfolding scenes. Fellas who have yet to attract a female species scuttle off to the local takeaway like spiders, as they try to ensnare any game female into their web of disappointment, and premature ejaculation. Taxi’s dash off, as their passengers request a stop at the local 24 hour petrol station,
“They sell condoms right?”
As I stroll over to the takeaway, I hear hushed conversations
“Can’t we go to yours?”
My mum and dad are in.
“Well so are mine”
Do you have Travelodge’s number?
I glance out of curiosity at the source of the conversation to see that in fact it’s my last remaining buddy. He gives me the “I’ll give you a ring in the morning and tell you if she’s got nice tits” look. I accept the subtle prompt with a wink and continue my little adventure.
I’m still unsure of what extremely unhealthy, overpriced chicken dish to feast upon when I get to the counter. Chicken fillet burger. I turn to look at the crammed fast food joint to be greeted with a scene only comparable to that of a watering hole in the savannah. Girls who looked so promising, and classy, are tying their hair back as they assault a box of cheesy chips. The cheese sticking to their new purchased jump suit. Other girls have claimed a mate as they tactically sit on his knee, as he attempts to inhale a Margerhetta pizza. He gives it up and takes it home at the promise of a one night stand. Priorities.
All that is required is a David Attenborough narration.
I collect my food, and head out to a kerb disturbed by a stream of taxis. I fend off the lady who is now wearing her cheesy chips, and hop in. It’s full on daylight as I instruct the driver of my destination. The car is spinning, the world is spinning. Like my bank account, I feel somewhat violated. I sigh as I momentarily drift off, telling the driver just how shit Everton really are.
My eyes, open, as I take in my surroundings. I realise that my back is extremely strained, as my matteress is now completely solid. I sit up, and to my confusion look to see a hot and cold tap at my feet. Yeah, I’m in the bath.
I can just see a polystyrene tub of chicken in the sink, and my clothes litter the tiled floor. I shrug, turn over, and continue to spoon my Simba teddy. Bollock naked, in the bath.