Dusk. Oh If We Must.

19 Jan

Ever since i was seventeen, me and the girls have frequented a particular nightclub in town. Friends have come and gone, but the six of us have stayed strong, and have been back and forward there for the last eight years of our lives.

The question is, why? When we were mere teenagers it was because you would pay ten British pounds to get in, and then drinks were free. Tuesdays were a write off, but we didn’t care as all we had to do was to go to college. Or not go, in most of our cases. As we got older the club got ‘refurbished’ the smoking ban was implemented and the sticky carpets removed. You think this would be a godsend, but really the smoking ban just made the purveying smell of fart obvious, and the removal of the carpet only acted as a surface for our shoes to be glued to, thanks to the spillage of sugary drinks by the masses. The toilets ALWAYS ran out of loo roll, so much so the RoCo would steal a whole roll at the beginning of the night, put it in her bag and dish it out like a mum at various desperate points of the night. When the refurbishment happened, the seats inexplicably were removed and replaced with something that looked like there was nothing there at all.

When we hit our twenties, we started going less and less, only going back when the super persuasive contingent (that’s you Choppy!) insisted we go.

So last week, for little Pellatt’s birthday, Emma and I went back (when this story was related to the others there were cries of ‘oh no!! You didn’t!!) we paid EIGHT POUNDS to get in, the fact that we needed to actually visit a cash point to do so adding further insult to the tale, and made a little promise to each other that we wouldn’t drink. All resolve went out the window when we arrived at the bar and ordered a fishbowl, swiftly followed by another. We clearly had the impression that we were in Greece or such like, and needed to drink alcopops out of a bowl in a true ‘what happens on tour stays on tour’ fashion. That was essentially what it was. Not content with serving the humble VK out of a bottle, it seems a fishbowl consists of pouring three of them into a bowl, and adding some ice and a straw. Ingenious. But the fishbowl has practical problems; if you dance while clutching one your hands go cold and you slosh it everywhere. What ensued was a fifteen year old style downing of the fishbowl, and then madly dancing before going back and buying another.

I woke up Sunday morning with a slight sense of doom, and a banging headache. Until next time, Dusk!!!

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