A Night Out From Hell (Part One).

After my last college exam, I went for drinks with two of my friends. We discussed how much we were going to miss each other over the Summer months (as is standard at end of year drinks) and we tried to make a pact to meet up every two weeks.

As I’m sure you know and I’m sure you’ve been thinking, these kind of pacts very rarely work, but does this mean that you shouldn’t make them? We acknowledged that it would be tough, but we each expressed a desire to meet up and held our glasses up to toast a Summer of actually seeing one another.

That is how, a week later, I ended up going on a night out with my two friends, something that I was happy to do.

It was an extremely busy week. One that I had spent working and barely sleeping and in our group chat, one of my friends proposed that we go to a night-club that’s well-known for a younger crowd. I’m reluctant to go to these studenty clubs as they’ve never really been my scene. I mean yeah, they’re for my age-group but I’ve always preferred establishments with just a little bit more class and an age-group that’s a bit older. This is just my preference, I’m not saying anything about student spots. I can see why people enjoy them, but they’re just not my thing. But I agreed to go on this night because I didn’t have any alternative location to propose and I didn’t really want to make a fuss (no really).

The day arrived and I finished work at five. I rushed to my college to finish off an essay and hand it into my lecturer. I met my friend, we grabbed take-away and we met my other friend at my apartment to get ready for the night ahead.

The kitchen in my apartment was extremely messy and I hadn’t had a chance to clean it up. So we were drinking and doing ourselves up in between piles of clothes, dishes, takeaway cartons and an array of other objects that were littered around the room. Not exactly the relaxed host vibe I was going for.

I was planning to take a glass of prosecco to the shower with me (like a spa) and to drink, get polished up and get some quality time with my friends at a leisurely pace before a night that consisted of drinking, dancing and falling contentedly into my bed in that order.

I was already running late but I realised that with a little bit of urgency on me, I would be able to pull myself together to leave by twelve o’clock. I ate my takeaway and began taking sips from my glass of prosecco when one of my friends turned to me and asked me could we get there by eleven.

“ELEVEN!” I practically screamed at her.

She laughed (she’s well able to handle me) and informed me that if we wanted to be at the club in time to get in :), we should be there by eleven. I took a deep breath and a deep gulp of prosecco before I made my calmest attempt at informing her that there was no way I’d be ready in time.

She was pretty insistent and I’ve been trying out this thing with my friends where I don’t act like an insistent bitchy diva who constantly has to get his own way. Believe it or not, I’d been doing quite well up until this very challenging obstacle.

We came up with a compromise that I’d be ready to leave the house at eleven (rather than being in town for that time which genuinely would have been impossible).

A little note on clubs where you have to arrive early to get in: They’re to be avoided. Why the fuck should I rush through getting ready and hop into a taxi in a sweat only to be graciously 🙂 granted entry to a club that’s going to be packed full of people when there are plenty of decent places in town that I can stroll into at my own pace and actually have room to breathe in?

I rushed through getting ready 🙂 and poured my beautiful bottle of prosecco into a crumpled plastic 🙂 litre one (feeling my heart break as the liquid gold was put into such a shitty container). I took one last look at myself in the mirror before I left and discovered that I miraculously didn’t look like a worn, raggedy scrubbing brush in a dress. I had somehow managed to pull myself together enough to look like some fancy JML brush that your Grandmother would see on the TV and rush to Heatons to purchase.

In the taxi, I took gulps 🙂 of prosecco feeling incredibly frazzled. I kept waiting for the moment that the drink would kick in and I’d feel my shoulders sag and my head loll back onto the head rest, but it didn’t come. I continued to feel incredibly tense (and quite queasy from drinking at such a fast pace). I passed the bottle around, forcing my friends to sip it as well while the taxi driver glared suspiciously at us in his rear-view mirror. If I was going to be off my face, I wasn’t doing it alone.

Okay so I’ll admit that I am part of the reason that this night out was so hellish because I insisted on sharing my drink with the others, but I refuse to accept full responsibility.

When the taxi pulled up and we stepped out, I almost jumped back into it. The queue was one of the largest I have ever seen :), full of drunk post-teens dressed to the nines and milling around in swarms. Some ferocious looking security guards were patrolling 🙂 the queue, yelling 🙂 into people’s faces demanding that they stop pushing one another and stay in an orderly queue.

Just in case I haven’t stated this before, I don’t really respond well to authority. Particularly the kind of authority where some man named Geoff shouts into your face if you happen to slip out of line. Now I feel sympathetic towards security guards in studenty clubs, I really do. But I’m used to nice clubs where a security guard named Craig smiles at me and waves me in, telling me to enjoy my night. And Geoff should know that if he shouts in my face, there’s a good chance I’ll do it back.

So as we walked the 3,000 steps 🙂 towards the back of the queue, I began to beg my friends to go somewhere else. We were in the centre of town, we could be in a cosier place within ten minutes. At this point I’m sure that they were incredibly sick of my moaning and it seemed like I was also sick of moaning because I began to feel the familiar sensation of vomit 🙂 creeping up from my stomach.

When I informed my friends of this fact, we looked for somewhere discreet that I could dispose of my prosecco and takeaway. We settled on a cosy little doorstep :). After all, if I was going to vomit, I was going to do it in style.

Unfortunately, another classy young man, had decided to vomit 🙂 on my doorstep and he was currently urinating 🙂 on the pile I had just witnessed him throwing up :).

But alas, I discovered that there was enough room for me to vomit beside the urinating boy :). I sense that you’re probably getting to know the reason that I resist these student nights out so much.

As I crouched down to vomit, with the assistance of my friend, another charming young fella decided it was his time to swoop in. Mistaking me for an inebriated young female who might be drunk enough 🙂 to be grateful for his harassment, he put his hands on my waist 🙂 and tried to soothe me. My friend told him where to go, but he didn’t really listen.

As I finished my deed, I wiped my mouth, wiped my eyes and extended back up to my full height of six foot three before turning around to him.

After giving him a death-glare, I linked my friend and made sure that no Geoffs had spotted me throwing up. I then re-joined the queue and my harasser scurried back to his friends.

Now we were in the packed queue and were looking at probably an hour’s waiting time 🙂 to get to the door of the club. I’ll admit that vomiting had made me lose some of my arguing power, but I still relentlessly begged my friends to go somewhere else. At this point, a considerate Geoff arrived to help me with my argument. After shoving me slightly so I was back in line 🙂 he informed us that we probably wouldn’t get in because we were too far back in the queue.

I turned to my friends feeling relieved (and willing to overlook Geoff’s previous indiscretion because of his good news) thinking that they’d finally see sense. But they were still determined to get in.

Then the line began to move. I was surrounded on every side by groups of drunk boys and girls 🙂 all attempting to flirt and find a mate in the queue before they entered. After all, why not start early? My very pretty, very well-dressed, very petite friends began to get shoved forwards in the queue while I began to get shoved backwards :).

A note on being tall in a crowd: No one lets you get by. If I’m navigating my way through a crowd with a few friends who are more vertically challenged than I, I am guaranteed to lose them a number of times. People will step aside in quite a friendly manner for my little friends. After all, they won’t block their view or cast them into a cold shade when they stand in front of them. However, if these friendly people want to ever see the sun again, they know not to let me get in front of them. Which is fair.

Once, when I was at a music festival, I informed a friend of my theory. He told me that I was probably being paranoid but I challenged him to walk behind me instead of in front of me. After a mere ten minutes of doing so, he could not believe the amount of times that people blocked me from getting to my friends. I suppose they think that by being tall, I have enough advantages in life without being allowed to gain easy access in a crowd on top of everything else.

So while my friends got pushed away from me and I was left with no one to talk to in the queue, I retreated inside my own head, something I like to do at times like this. I tried to imagine that I had found myself on an exotic safari trip and was observing a herd of a different species from the inside.

I watched as students jostled one another, picked fleas off one another, shoved their tongues down each other’s throats and even marked their territory.

Yes that’s right. I witnessed many boys unzip their trousers and urinate over a little alcove that we were queuing beside :).

Speaking of urination, it seemed as though all of the females (myself included) were hopping from one foot to another, also needing to relieve themselves. I was disgusted that I was waiting in a fucking queue, unable to fulfil a vital bodily function but such is life, no? :).


Read about another hellish night out of mine here.


Watch how I’m managing to stay sane while putting on weight with an eating disorder below:



3 thoughts on “A Night Out From Hell (Part One).

  1. I’m so glad that I am too old to wait in lines like that now 🙂 I am curious, have you ever written about the LGBT scene in Dublin? I would love to know more about it. There seems to be a shift in mentality with the election of Varadkar, or is that merely an outsiders perspective?

    Like

    • I actually never really find myself on the LGBT scene in Dublin so I don’t think I’d be the right person to write about it honestly. I think there was a shift in perspective a few years ago and the election of Varadkar is a result of that down the line. That’s just my opinion though. ☺️

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Pingback: A Night Out From Hell (Part Two). | Laylah Talks

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