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Into the taxi we pile, four of us. We've already had a couple of cans and a pint or two in a quiet pub, and now we're heading into town.
First stop, Wetherspoons. Cheap beer, no terrible dance music, lots of nice looking lasses. Have a pint or two. Everybody talks about the women there, but nobody does anything.
"Damn... look at her!" rings out constantly from our little corner.
"Go and talk to her."
"Er... maybe later."
Drinking whilst standing up has always been a challenge for me, always feels heavy in my stomach, and I start to feel ill after just one or two beers. But there's about as much chance of sitting down as there is a drunken monkey will come waltzing in and slap me in the face with a haddock. It's one big standing area. I'm already behind the group, they're finishing their pint and I'm only halfway through. Is it meant to taste good? Sure, some beers taste better than others, but no beer actually tastes NICE to me. After almost four years of drinking, you'd think I would've developed a taste for it. But I can never convince my mates to have some triple vodkas with me, so I'm stuck with beer. Of course my friends don't know this, to them, beer tastes amazing. Just tastes harsh to me, but I'd rather be drinking the pint of Fosters in my hand than Carling, so I don't complain.
"Howay, get the next round in."
"Hang on, haven't finished this one."
"You're not a real man."
"Hang on, hang on."
I force the last of my drink down and head to the queue. They seem to have a policy where girls and tall people get served, and everyone else is left to rot by the bar, awaiting their turn. With no-one to talk to, I just stare at the floor. The queue doesn't move, it just shuffles around. Eventually I've had enough, and push in front of somebody who had just pushed in front of somebody else. I'm at the front, but I'm still no closer to getting served.
With four pints, I obviously can't make it back to my group through the mass crowd. I take two over, and then snake my way back through the groups to get to the others. At least three or four people knock me, and I have enough beer running down my arms to fill a shot glass twice over.
The drinking continues. Too loud for us to talk now, as the place fills even more. You can't talk, you can't move, there's nowhere to put your drink. You just stand taking sips, looking around.
Nature calls, time to brave the crowd again. A mere ten metre walk takes a couple of minutes, thanks to the hordes of people. After a slash, I come back - the group has moved somewhere. Spend five minutes fighting through the crowd again trying to find them. Probably walked past them at least once, but I wouldn't know it since most people there tower over me. Being average height just doesn't pay.
Finally find the group.
"What took you so long?"
"I had to find you. Why'd you move?"
"To get a better view of those lasses."
"Right..."
They hand me my drink, and stare at me as I force it down so we can leave. Time to go to the next pub. We push our way through the crowd once again, and are soon back outside. Two lads are pushing each other, with one in the middle trying to separate them. Probably best friends. Alcohol brings out the worst in some people. In the next pub now, just around the corner. Crappy pop and dance music blasts. I despise it, but my mates like it. Too loud to talk in here too, so I just await another drink. Once again, we stand, not talking to each other, sipping our pints. Not much different from the last place, but for some reason we had to come here. One mate goes off to the bandits, one goes to get the next round in, the other goes to the toilets. I'm left alone, half a pint in my hand, looking around the pub. Well, this is exciting, certainly worthy of my time.
Another pint and we leave. I'm ready to go home, before the last metro. Night's been crap so far, won't exactly improve. But they won't let me leave, and plead me to stay. Why? They're not talking to me, they're talking to each other and I'm alone with my thoughts, feeling ill. If I could sit down I'd be alright, but as it is, I'm stuck in a loud pub, drinking overpriced beer and not talking to anyone.
They convince me to come with them to the next place, probably a club. £5 to get in? Typical. Inside yet more terrible dance and pop music plays. Please, don't let us end up on the dance floor. Sure enough, we end up on the dance floor, which is packed so tightly you can just about move your arms. Never saw the point in dancing. Unless you're good at it, you have no right to be on the dance floor, and none of us can dance to save our lives. I just sort of move up and down on the spot, and shake my arms, stiffly like a robot. Luckily it's too dark for anyone to see me properly, but I know I look like a muppet.
I'm handed some cheap beer I've never heard of, and now I have to juggle between forcing that down and dancing like Darth Vader. I see one mate talking to a girl, the other two are simply dancing. It's only 12am. It’s gonna be a long night.
At 2am, my mates finally want to leave, and they’re all rather intoxicated. I’m still sober as a priest on Sunday as we head out. Now it's babysitting duties, as my mates fall about the place, tripping and leaning on each other. Very easy for a fight to start when people have Dutch courage. I get us to the taxi rank, my ears ringing from the assault that is overly loud dance music. We hop in after a long wait, and ride home. I end up paying the fare, as my mates are too drunk to search for money. One mate lives near me, so he goes home. The other two ask to sleep at mine. So I stick them in the spare bedroom, and watch some TV at 3 in the morning for a few hours until I'm tired enough to sleep.
Next day, they go on about how good a night it was, and how nice the lasses were, and how much of a "dick that kid was!"
"What did you think of last night?" they ask me.
"Yeah, it was alright," I lie.
That's a typical night out for me. I don't get drunk, I don't enjoy myself, I can't even talk to my friends. I feel like I'm just running through the motions of what supposedly makes a good night. For me, a good night is a few beers around a telly with your mates, where you can talk and have a laugh. You certainly won't pull, but it's good fun. Out there, you either get so drunk you sleep with an ugly bird and puke the next day, or you get bored out of your skull and the night can't go by quickly enough. My mates know how I feel about going out, but each time they beg me to come. I always wonder why, since I'm just a piece of furniture there, something in the background.
"It'll be good this time!" they always tell me. Bullplop, I think. But they always convince me to go, and I always have a terrible time. I'm just running through the motions.
First stop, Wetherspoons. Cheap beer, no terrible dance music, lots of nice looking lasses. Have a pint or two. Everybody talks about the women there, but nobody does anything.
"Damn... look at her!" rings out constantly from our little corner.
"Go and talk to her."
"Er... maybe later."
Drinking whilst standing up has always been a challenge for me, always feels heavy in my stomach, and I start to feel ill after just one or two beers. But there's about as much chance of sitting down as there is a drunken monkey will come waltzing in and slap me in the face with a haddock. It's one big standing area. I'm already behind the group, they're finishing their pint and I'm only halfway through. Is it meant to taste good? Sure, some beers taste better than others, but no beer actually tastes NICE to me. After almost four years of drinking, you'd think I would've developed a taste for it. But I can never convince my mates to have some triple vodkas with me, so I'm stuck with beer. Of course my friends don't know this, to them, beer tastes amazing. Just tastes harsh to me, but I'd rather be drinking the pint of Fosters in my hand than Carling, so I don't complain.
"Howay, get the next round in."
"Hang on, haven't finished this one."
"You're not a real man."
"Hang on, hang on."
I force the last of my drink down and head to the queue. They seem to have a policy where girls and tall people get served, and everyone else is left to rot by the bar, awaiting their turn. With no-one to talk to, I just stare at the floor. The queue doesn't move, it just shuffles around. Eventually I've had enough, and push in front of somebody who had just pushed in front of somebody else. I'm at the front, but I'm still no closer to getting served.
With four pints, I obviously can't make it back to my group through the mass crowd. I take two over, and then snake my way back through the groups to get to the others. At least three or four people knock me, and I have enough beer running down my arms to fill a shot glass twice over.
The drinking continues. Too loud for us to talk now, as the place fills even more. You can't talk, you can't move, there's nowhere to put your drink. You just stand taking sips, looking around.
Nature calls, time to brave the crowd again. A mere ten metre walk takes a couple of minutes, thanks to the hordes of people. After a slash, I come back - the group has moved somewhere. Spend five minutes fighting through the crowd again trying to find them. Probably walked past them at least once, but I wouldn't know it since most people there tower over me. Being average height just doesn't pay.
Finally find the group.
"What took you so long?"
"I had to find you. Why'd you move?"
"To get a better view of those lasses."
"Right..."
They hand me my drink, and stare at me as I force it down so we can leave. Time to go to the next pub. We push our way through the crowd once again, and are soon back outside. Two lads are pushing each other, with one in the middle trying to separate them. Probably best friends. Alcohol brings out the worst in some people. In the next pub now, just around the corner. Crappy pop and dance music blasts. I despise it, but my mates like it. Too loud to talk in here too, so I just await another drink. Once again, we stand, not talking to each other, sipping our pints. Not much different from the last place, but for some reason we had to come here. One mate goes off to the bandits, one goes to get the next round in, the other goes to the toilets. I'm left alone, half a pint in my hand, looking around the pub. Well, this is exciting, certainly worthy of my time.
Another pint and we leave. I'm ready to go home, before the last metro. Night's been crap so far, won't exactly improve. But they won't let me leave, and plead me to stay. Why? They're not talking to me, they're talking to each other and I'm alone with my thoughts, feeling ill. If I could sit down I'd be alright, but as it is, I'm stuck in a loud pub, drinking overpriced beer and not talking to anyone.
They convince me to come with them to the next place, probably a club. £5 to get in? Typical. Inside yet more terrible dance and pop music plays. Please, don't let us end up on the dance floor. Sure enough, we end up on the dance floor, which is packed so tightly you can just about move your arms. Never saw the point in dancing. Unless you're good at it, you have no right to be on the dance floor, and none of us can dance to save our lives. I just sort of move up and down on the spot, and shake my arms, stiffly like a robot. Luckily it's too dark for anyone to see me properly, but I know I look like a muppet.
I'm handed some cheap beer I've never heard of, and now I have to juggle between forcing that down and dancing like Darth Vader. I see one mate talking to a girl, the other two are simply dancing. It's only 12am. It’s gonna be a long night.
At 2am, my mates finally want to leave, and they’re all rather intoxicated. I’m still sober as a priest on Sunday as we head out. Now it's babysitting duties, as my mates fall about the place, tripping and leaning on each other. Very easy for a fight to start when people have Dutch courage. I get us to the taxi rank, my ears ringing from the assault that is overly loud dance music. We hop in after a long wait, and ride home. I end up paying the fare, as my mates are too drunk to search for money. One mate lives near me, so he goes home. The other two ask to sleep at mine. So I stick them in the spare bedroom, and watch some TV at 3 in the morning for a few hours until I'm tired enough to sleep.
Next day, they go on about how good a night it was, and how nice the lasses were, and how much of a "dick that kid was!"
"What did you think of last night?" they ask me.
"Yeah, it was alright," I lie.
That's a typical night out for me. I don't get drunk, I don't enjoy myself, I can't even talk to my friends. I feel like I'm just running through the motions of what supposedly makes a good night. For me, a good night is a few beers around a telly with your mates, where you can talk and have a laugh. You certainly won't pull, but it's good fun. Out there, you either get so drunk you sleep with an ugly bird and puke the next day, or you get bored out of your skull and the night can't go by quickly enough. My mates know how I feel about going out, but each time they beg me to come. I always wonder why, since I'm just a piece of furniture there, something in the background.
"It'll be good this time!" they always tell me. Bullplop, I think. But they always convince me to go, and I always have a terrible time. I'm just running through the motions.
Page:
Heh. Sounds like every Friday night ever...
Into the taxi we pile, four of us. We've already had a couple of cans and a pint or two in a quiet pub, and now we're heading into town.
First stop, Wetherspoons. Cheap beer, no terrible dance music, lots of nice looking lasses. Have a pint or two. Everybody talks about the women there, but nobody does anything.
"Damn... look at her!" rings out constantly from our little corner.
"Go and talk to her."
"Er... maybe later."
Drinking whilst standing up has always been a challenge for me, always feels heavy in my stomach, and I start to feel ill after just one or two beers. But there's about as much chance of sitting down as there is a drunken monkey will come waltzing in and slap me in the face with a haddock. It's one big standing area. I'm already behind the group, they're finishing their pint and I'm only halfway through. Is it meant to taste good? Sure, some beers taste better than others, but no beer actually tastes NICE to me. After almost four years of drinking, you'd think I would've developed a taste for it. But I can never convince my mates to have some triple vodkas with me, so I'm stuck with beer. Of course my friends don't know this, to them, beer tastes amazing. Just tastes harsh to me, but I'd rather be drinking the pint of Fosters in my hand than Carling, so I don't complain.
"Howay, get the next round in."
"Hang on, haven't finished this one."
"You're not a real man."
"Hang on, hang on."
I force the last of my drink down and head to the queue. They seem to have a policy where girls and tall people get served, and everyone else is left to rot by the bar, awaiting their turn. With no-one to talk to, I just stare at the floor. The queue doesn't move, it just shuffles around. Eventually I've had enough, and push in front of somebody who had just pushed in front of somebody else. I'm at the front, but I'm still no closer to getting served.
With four pints, I obviously can't make it back to my group through the mass crowd. I take two over, and then snake my way back through the groups to get to the others. At least three or four people knock me, and I have enough beer running down my arms to fill a shot glass twice over.
The drinking continues. Too loud for us to talk now, as the place fills even more. You can't talk, you can't move, there's nowhere to put your drink. You just stand taking sips, looking around.
Nature calls, time to brave the crowd again. A mere ten metre walk takes a couple of minutes, thanks to the hordes of people. After a slash, I come back - the group has moved somewhere. Spend five minutes fighting through the crowd again trying to find them. Probably walked past them at least once, but I wouldn't know it since most people there tower over me. Being average height just doesn't pay.
Finally find the group.
"What took you so long?"
"I had to find you. Why'd you move?"
"To get a better view of those lasses."
"Right..."
They hand me my drink, and stare at me as I force it down so we can leave. Time to go to the next pub. We push our way through the crowd once again, and are soon back outside. Two lads are pushing each other, with one in the middle trying to separate them. Probably best friends. Alcohol brings out the worst in some people. In the next pub now, just around the corner. Crappy pop and dance music blasts. I despise it, but my mates like it. Too loud to talk in here too, so I just await another drink. Once again, we stand, not talking to each other, sipping our pints. Not much different from the last place, but for some reason we had to come here. One mate goes off to the bandits, one goes to get the next round in, the other goes to the toilets. I'm left alone, half a pint in my hand, looking around the pub. Well, this is exciting, certainly worthy of my time.
Another pint and we leave. I'm ready to go home, before the last metro. Night's been crap so far, won't exactly improve. But they won't let me leave, and plead me to stay. Why? They're not talking to me, they're talking to each other and I'm alone with my thoughts, feeling ill. If I could sit down I'd be alright, but as it is, I'm stuck in a loud pub, drinking overpriced beer and not talking to anyone.
They convince me to come with them to the next place, probably a club. £5 to get in? Typical. Inside yet more terrible dance and pop music plays. Please, don't let us end up on the dance floor. Sure enough, we end up on the dance floor, which is packed so tightly you can just about move your arms. Never saw the point in dancing. Unless you're good at it, you have no right to be on the dance floor, and none of us can dance to save our lives. I just sort of move up and down on the spot, and shake my arms, stiffly like a robot. Luckily it's too dark for anyone to see me properly, but I know I look like a muppet.
I'm handed some cheap beer I've never heard of, and now I have to juggle between forcing that down and dancing like Darth Vader. I see one mate talking to a girl, the other two are simply dancing. It's only 12am. It’s gonna be a long night.
At 2am, my mates finally want to leave, and they’re all rather intoxicated. I’m still sober as a priest on Sunday as we head out. Now it's babysitting duties, as my mates fall about the place, tripping and leaning on each other. Very easy for a fight to start when people have Dutch courage. I get us to the taxi rank, my ears ringing from the assault that is overly loud dance music. We hop in after a long wait, and ride home. I end up paying the fare, as my mates are too drunk to search for money. One mate lives near me, so he goes home. The other two ask to sleep at mine. So I stick them in the spare bedroom, and watch some TV at 3 in the morning for a few hours until I'm tired enough to sleep.
Next day, they go on about how good a night it was, and how nice the lasses were, and how much of a "dick that kid was!"
"What did you think of last night?" they ask me.
"Yeah, it was alright," I lie.
That's a typical night out for me. I don't get drunk, I don't enjoy myself, I can't even talk to my friends. I feel like I'm just running through the motions of what supposedly makes a good night. For me, a good night is a few beers around a telly with your mates, where you can talk and have a laugh. You certainly won't pull, but it's good fun. Out there, you either get so drunk you sleep with an ugly bird and puke the next day, or you get bored out of your skull and the night can't go by quickly enough. My mates know how I feel about going out, but each time they beg me to come. I always wonder why, since I'm just a piece of furniture there, something in the background.
"It'll be good this time!" they always tell me. Bullplop, I think. But they always convince me to go, and I always have a terrible time. I'm just running through the motions.
First stop, Wetherspoons. Cheap beer, no terrible dance music, lots of nice looking lasses. Have a pint or two. Everybody talks about the women there, but nobody does anything.
"Damn... look at her!" rings out constantly from our little corner.
"Go and talk to her."
"Er... maybe later."
Drinking whilst standing up has always been a challenge for me, always feels heavy in my stomach, and I start to feel ill after just one or two beers. But there's about as much chance of sitting down as there is a drunken monkey will come waltzing in and slap me in the face with a haddock. It's one big standing area. I'm already behind the group, they're finishing their pint and I'm only halfway through. Is it meant to taste good? Sure, some beers taste better than others, but no beer actually tastes NICE to me. After almost four years of drinking, you'd think I would've developed a taste for it. But I can never convince my mates to have some triple vodkas with me, so I'm stuck with beer. Of course my friends don't know this, to them, beer tastes amazing. Just tastes harsh to me, but I'd rather be drinking the pint of Fosters in my hand than Carling, so I don't complain.
"Howay, get the next round in."
"Hang on, haven't finished this one."
"You're not a real man."
"Hang on, hang on."
I force the last of my drink down and head to the queue. They seem to have a policy where girls and tall people get served, and everyone else is left to rot by the bar, awaiting their turn. With no-one to talk to, I just stare at the floor. The queue doesn't move, it just shuffles around. Eventually I've had enough, and push in front of somebody who had just pushed in front of somebody else. I'm at the front, but I'm still no closer to getting served.
With four pints, I obviously can't make it back to my group through the mass crowd. I take two over, and then snake my way back through the groups to get to the others. At least three or four people knock me, and I have enough beer running down my arms to fill a shot glass twice over.
The drinking continues. Too loud for us to talk now, as the place fills even more. You can't talk, you can't move, there's nowhere to put your drink. You just stand taking sips, looking around.
Nature calls, time to brave the crowd again. A mere ten metre walk takes a couple of minutes, thanks to the hordes of people. After a slash, I come back - the group has moved somewhere. Spend five minutes fighting through the crowd again trying to find them. Probably walked past them at least once, but I wouldn't know it since most people there tower over me. Being average height just doesn't pay.
Finally find the group.
"What took you so long?"
"I had to find you. Why'd you move?"
"To get a better view of those lasses."
"Right..."
They hand me my drink, and stare at me as I force it down so we can leave. Time to go to the next pub. We push our way through the crowd once again, and are soon back outside. Two lads are pushing each other, with one in the middle trying to separate them. Probably best friends. Alcohol brings out the worst in some people. In the next pub now, just around the corner. Crappy pop and dance music blasts. I despise it, but my mates like it. Too loud to talk in here too, so I just await another drink. Once again, we stand, not talking to each other, sipping our pints. Not much different from the last place, but for some reason we had to come here. One mate goes off to the bandits, one goes to get the next round in, the other goes to the toilets. I'm left alone, half a pint in my hand, looking around the pub. Well, this is exciting, certainly worthy of my time.
Another pint and we leave. I'm ready to go home, before the last metro. Night's been crap so far, won't exactly improve. But they won't let me leave, and plead me to stay. Why? They're not talking to me, they're talking to each other and I'm alone with my thoughts, feeling ill. If I could sit down I'd be alright, but as it is, I'm stuck in a loud pub, drinking overpriced beer and not talking to anyone.
They convince me to come with them to the next place, probably a club. £5 to get in? Typical. Inside yet more terrible dance and pop music plays. Please, don't let us end up on the dance floor. Sure enough, we end up on the dance floor, which is packed so tightly you can just about move your arms. Never saw the point in dancing. Unless you're good at it, you have no right to be on the dance floor, and none of us can dance to save our lives. I just sort of move up and down on the spot, and shake my arms, stiffly like a robot. Luckily it's too dark for anyone to see me properly, but I know I look like a muppet.
I'm handed some cheap beer I've never heard of, and now I have to juggle between forcing that down and dancing like Darth Vader. I see one mate talking to a girl, the other two are simply dancing. It's only 12am. It’s gonna be a long night.
At 2am, my mates finally want to leave, and they’re all rather intoxicated. I’m still sober as a priest on Sunday as we head out. Now it's babysitting duties, as my mates fall about the place, tripping and leaning on each other. Very easy for a fight to start when people have Dutch courage. I get us to the taxi rank, my ears ringing from the assault that is overly loud dance music. We hop in after a long wait, and ride home. I end up paying the fare, as my mates are too drunk to search for money. One mate lives near me, so he goes home. The other two ask to sleep at mine. So I stick them in the spare bedroom, and watch some TV at 3 in the morning for a few hours until I'm tired enough to sleep.
Next day, they go on about how good a night it was, and how nice the lasses were, and how much of a "dick that kid was!"
"What did you think of last night?" they ask me.
"Yeah, it was alright," I lie.
That's a typical night out for me. I don't get drunk, I don't enjoy myself, I can't even talk to my friends. I feel like I'm just running through the motions of what supposedly makes a good night. For me, a good night is a few beers around a telly with your mates, where you can talk and have a laugh. You certainly won't pull, but it's good fun. Out there, you either get so drunk you sleep with an ugly bird and puke the next day, or you get bored out of your skull and the night can't go by quickly enough. My mates know how I feel about going out, but each time they beg me to come. I always wonder why, since I'm just a piece of furniture there, something in the background.
"It'll be good this time!" they always tell me. Bullplop, I think. But they always convince me to go, and I always have a terrible time. I'm just running through the motions.
Page: