There's nothing particularly pleasant about binge drinking, just as there's nothing particularly pleasant about a nightclub - yet my friends and I live for the nights where we can render ourselves so offensively drunk that we can't remember our own names; or what our parents look like. An ideal week for me would be one where I go out on Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday - it's been done before, when I've had an unusual disregard for lectures, or when my student loan has just come in, and these weeks are literally the best.
One of the perils of a night out in my university city are locals. They're Welsh and don't like the fact that the majority of students can't speak the language. There are pubs in the City that students don't go to because it's strictly locals-only (don't get me wrong, this isn't some kind of welsh nationalist apartheid thing, it's just like an unwritten rule). I like to think that for the most part, students and locals co-exist peacefully enough - I've even met local men and women who are perfectly lovely, but like anywhere - you'll always come across arseholes.
There are three nightclubs in the City; Q, S and B. I'll describe them for you:
Q
Q is the nightclub we visit most often. It is a literal shithole; sticky floors, questionable patrons and bathrooms which leave a lot to be desired. Despite this we enjoy it. A lot of student go there, especially on a Wednesday (student wednesday, woo) because of 75p jagerbombs and £1 drinks. Q is okay on a Friday, you notice the locals more and it can sometimes be hit and miss - the price of drinks spike as well, where you'd spend 75p on a jagerbomb on a Wednesday, you're paying £3.20 (YES, THREE POUNDS TWENTY) on a Friday. Ridiculous. On a Saturday, Q is no-man's land. Or no-student's land, because the locals are hideously drunk and hilariously aggressive. We stay well away from Q on a Saturday.
S
S is the newest nightclub in the City. Full of poser locals who think they're better than they actually are, and also full of snobby students who look down on Q and the people who go there. The music in S is alright, I suppose, but nothing special and the drinks are often expensive, more so than anywhere else (you can't get away with £2 shots and bottles here, I'm afraid) and so we don't often go. They have guest DJs and special guests sometimes that we'll make the effort to see, but apart from that there's nothing special about it.
B
B is the student-run nightclub. It's nothing to look at but I've had many a good night here on account of the good music, cheap drinks and good company. We go here on Mondays and Saturdays usually, and can get blind drunk on a tenner.
Since beginning University, I have come to appreciate pre-drinking. Often, pre-drinking is the best part of the night, you can laugh and talk to your friends - something you can't do on a busy, sweaty dancefloor. One of the best pre-drink drinking games you can play is 'Roxanne'. Drinking when they sing 'Roxanne' and turning on the spot when they sing 'red light' is one of the funniest and easiest ways to get ridiculously drunk before you go out. And if you don't fill up a water bottle with a concoction of alcohol to walk down to the club with, then you're stupid.
~~~
Let's call him 'deep V-neck'. Pushing past me in the club (one hand brushing me across the arse as he goes), he eyes me like I am a gutted pig at the abattoir. This is an undeniable reality for any woman in a nightclub. Guys stare at you, internally deciding whether or not to take the time to speak to you, or to dance on you, whichever is their preferred method of attack. To them, you're nothing more than a set of holes that could be of use to them for the night. Every guy is charming, and funny and sweet with you in the club, but just because they buy you a snakebite and tell you that you're pretty doesn't mean you should give them unfettered access to your vagina. Expect nothing, and give nothing away - the most I'd stretch to on a night out is a kiss, nothing more (I met you like, an hour ago, what makes you think you're coming home with me?).
~~~
Let's call him 'deep V-neck'. Pushing past me in the club (one hand brushing me across the arse as he goes), he eyes me like I am a gutted pig at the abattoir. This is an undeniable reality for any woman in a nightclub. Guys stare at you, internally deciding whether or not to take the time to speak to you, or to dance on you, whichever is their preferred method of attack. To them, you're nothing more than a set of holes that could be of use to them for the night. Every guy is charming, and funny and sweet with you in the club, but just because they buy you a snakebite and tell you that you're pretty doesn't mean you should give them unfettered access to your vagina. Expect nothing, and give nothing away - the most I'd stretch to on a night out is a kiss, nothing more (I met you like, an hour ago, what makes you think you're coming home with me?).
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