This is Me
A Study in Sambuca
So the first week of the new university year went about as well as could be expected. Late for the first lecture, deciding I didn’t want to do one of the modules, generally raging against the university and their inability to get anything together unless it involves money (or library loans). So all in all it was going pretty well, I didn’t expect much from the first week; honestly after the chaos that is fresher’s week the idea of learning goes down about as well as the first shot of absinthe (never, ever again.)
And don’t get me started on worrying about if the new housemate was going to be an absolute star, or someone worth drowning in the river. Or burying in ASDA’s carpark. Luckily it was neither. She’s great. Lightweight though. Absolute class.
But then it got to that fateful day. The night out. We all knew it was coming; Wednesday night never failed to entertain. From the sheer amount of people crowding to get a kebab, to the occasional Disney society girl. The bank balances had been totalled, the ready meals had been brought, and the shot glasses had been scrubbed. It was time to go to war.
I thought my body was ready, and I was wrong.
It has to be said that you never go on a night out without the essentials: ID, half-charged phone, at least three ASDA receipts and mixer so cheap you could strip wallpaper with it. The point is to get drunk, how you get there doesn’t matter. It’s not the journey, it’s the destination that counts. Preferably a bathroom floor, or someone else’s bed.
One key rule is that you should never, never go out without your wingmen. In my case it was Captain Morgan and Comrade Smirnoff. They knew how to have a good night, and they never disappoint. Bottles of alcohol are a good substitute when your friends pass out and you realise you’re stuck with nothing to do at 5AM.
Pre-drinks rolled out quickly enough, though it was a bit awkward, considering some of the people of the room had ended up in bed with other people in the room. I’m not naming names, but cheaters never prosper. Unless it’s poker, in which case rake it in as much as possible and get out before you lose your kneecaps. Ring of Fire was first on the menu and it was… Great.
Sometimes you just get dealt a good hand (Hah.)
Question Master is the greatest thing to ever be invented, except maybe a Breville. When you can choose who drinks and when, you become some sort of alcoholic god. And at that point everyone knows you don’t fuck with the Question Master. When the game got down to the wire it was all going a little bit mental; our new housemate had done her best to fall up the stairs. The fact she made it into the club and carried on drinking was something worth bragging about.
Getting into the club was easy enough, flash the ID, pay a surprisingly small price and there you go. Strobe lights all night and at least two floors of terrible music and one that’s somewhat decent but only when they decide to put the 80s on. I refuse to let people tell me that Wham! is not worthy of a night out. What kind of nightclub puts on Justin Bieber, Skepta and Eminem but forgets the Holy Grail that is Wham!?
Either way once you’ve had enough shots everything starts to sound the same regardless, the faces all look the same. Unless they’re blonde. There’s no time in life for them, brunettes are far superior anyway.
After losing the entire group multiple times I managed to persuade my way into VIP, it helps when you know a couple of the society girls and know how to put the charm on. Charm being asking nicely and hoping they don’t say no. After an hour or so in there, it was time to leave. The music got worth, everyone I know had left; and someone got arrested.
And then it all kicked off! What a fucking madness the end of the night was. Not only was I dragged into an argument involving some relationship drama but then I blew it out of proportion and ended up ringing my mum for advice. So all in all the night was your average weeknight out in Canterbury.
I laughed. I drank. I cried. I drank some more.
If there’s anything to take from this experience, I’ve probably forgotten because I was completely and utterly pissed out of my face. So, moral of the story:
Drink less, don’t get into arguments with housemates and whatever you do, you can always count on your mum to help.
