I’m standing on the edge of a black hole, staring into the abyss. How did I get here? I know that I travelled through the shadows; I have the wounds to prove it; cuts and bruises carved into my skin. However, my recollection of what occurred during my journey has been lost along the way. My mind has been wiped and now a curious emptiness lay before my eyes, an emptiness called Saturday Night.
On the night in question I was very excited. The last time I had been out was on my birthday and the weeks in between had proven to be difficult. With each weekend that came and went my lust for the bitter taste of vodka on my lips grew ever stronger. The need to don a pair of heels and take to the streets, scantily clad, forever building. And so, when the day finally came in which I could fulfil my desires, I was brewing with anticipation. An evening fuelled by alcohol and dancing with my besties was definitely something I had missed. With a new pair of shoes to wear I was all set for a big night. I grabbed my purse, make up, money and swagger and left my house feeling on top of the world.
The first hurdle presented itself at the entrance of the pub I have been spending my weekends at for the past 2 years. Now at the ripe old age of 20, when handing over my ID the prospect of it being questioned rarely enters my mind. However, the bouncer who stood before me, my ID resting in his fingers, was eyeing me suspiciously and then asked me for some other form of identification that had my name on it. Of course I was able to do so and he moved aside and let me enter. This event was discussed with distaste upon greeting each person that arrived. I know I look young, but that really wounded my confidence.
After that slight mishap, we soon had our drinks in hand and it felt like I’d never been away. I was back in my comfort zone. Coincidently, we were not the only ones who had decided to leave our abode’s to dance the night away, as we were bumping into familiar faces from the moment we arrived. The drinks flowed, the conversation ran and soon everyone’s thoughts were swaying towards removing ourselves from the pub and onto the club. But not before a quick Chlamydia test had been done.
This wasn’t the first time I had been greeted by two people armed with official looking forms, surrounded by white pots. It could be said that taking a Chlamydia test when you’re 11 months into a happy, committed, relationship is a bit foolish, but at that moment in time it felt that our night would not be complete until we had completed this task, and a task it would be. Peeing in a pot often proves a challenge when one is sober, so I’m sure I needn’t say that it is 100 times harder when drunk; I was certainly hastier than usual in washing my hands after I’d finished.
Finally, we were on our way, but not before we were faced with another obstacle to surpass. Upon exiting the establishment we were greeted by a gentleman who after a bit of light conversation proceeded to tell us: “There’s always one guy who gets all the girls.” It seemed that this man was suggesting that he is one of these guys. We looked at him, dreadlocks, scruffy clothes, dirty shoes, possibly a slight smell circulating around him, and decided this was laughable. We mocked him a little and in the end he walked off and we were free to continue on our journey.
It is at this point that I must turn to the 186 pictures taken that night in order to aid me with the rest of my tale. Although having poured over them many times already to laugh and cringe at the events that were captured, I now must look at them as a storyboard and translate into words the outlandish things that appeared to have taken place.
Naturally, we first made our way to the toilet and then headed straight to the bar. After having purchased our first drinks, I headed towards the seating area with one of my friends and proceeded to spill my drink all over the table. After this, we again found ourselves at the bar, where we bumped into a few familiar faces, purchased our alcohol and then made our way to the dance floor, the main attraction for the evening.
Amidst busting some moves, I brought out the camera once more and began to take some action shots. Just as I was about to snap another picture of one of my friends, a gentleman resembling an anime character tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I’d like him to take a picture of all of us. Oh what a lovely man! I gratefully handed over my camera, joined the rest of the group. We all struck a pose and waited for the flash. Only after he had handed my camera back for me to inspect his photography skills, did I realise two of his friends had high jacked what would’ve been a wonderful picture of me and my friends. Whenever I look back at this picture now, I’ll smile to myself, as I look down at our group, remembering a night of fun...and those two strange ugly men in the background.
As the night progressed we moved from the main room into the cheese room. If we thought we’d been enjoying ourselves so far, we were about to get hit with the party stick and really make the nights Facebook album one worth looking at, depending on your opinion on overexposure that is.
All our inhibitions had been flung out the window and we were ready to get down to business. We were in our element with the music ranging from the Spice Girls and Michael Jackson eventually moving on to Arctic Monkeys and The Fratellis. We all seemed to forget that our skirts had difficulty covering our assets during the simple task of walking, let alone dancing like nobody was watching. The resulting images should probably come with a Parental Guidance label.
The heels were off! We’d comfortably settled in a wide space in the corner, surrounded by tables and cushioned seats that we would soon find were not just useful for holding our drinks and perching our bums on, but also for dancing on. This piece of information became essential in the mystery of the 5 inch gash across my back and the fist size bruise on my inner thigh. It was a shock when I awoke the next day, believing I had just been out clubbing with my friends, to look like I had agreed to an unprecedented surgical procedure. After countless speculations I decided to brush it off and now firmly believe that the resulting damage to my body accumulates to an incredible night.
We dominated said area and danced for hours; no one would have dared try to invade our space, mainly for fear of acquiring injuries similar to my own. We did the Macarena like pros and indulged in some gymnastics as well. I have a fleeting image of standing in front of the mirror in the abandoned toilets, wiping sweat off my face, overlooked by a strange lady who was always standing in the exact same place whenever I entered and exited the room. The calories we must have burnt that night exceed any I could hope to burn during a planned workout.
I think it’s safe to say that my return to alcohol fuelled nightlife has been a successful and unforgettable one. Hopefully this will be the platform for many more summer evenings spent polluting my body and partaking in embarrassing and unflattering moments.
On the night in question I was very excited. The last time I had been out was on my birthday and the weeks in between had proven to be difficult. With each weekend that came and went my lust for the bitter taste of vodka on my lips grew ever stronger. The need to don a pair of heels and take to the streets, scantily clad, forever building. And so, when the day finally came in which I could fulfil my desires, I was brewing with anticipation. An evening fuelled by alcohol and dancing with my besties was definitely something I had missed. With a new pair of shoes to wear I was all set for a big night. I grabbed my purse, make up, money and swagger and left my house feeling on top of the world.
The first hurdle presented itself at the entrance of the pub I have been spending my weekends at for the past 2 years. Now at the ripe old age of 20, when handing over my ID the prospect of it being questioned rarely enters my mind. However, the bouncer who stood before me, my ID resting in his fingers, was eyeing me suspiciously and then asked me for some other form of identification that had my name on it. Of course I was able to do so and he moved aside and let me enter. This event was discussed with distaste upon greeting each person that arrived. I know I look young, but that really wounded my confidence.
After that slight mishap, we soon had our drinks in hand and it felt like I’d never been away. I was back in my comfort zone. Coincidently, we were not the only ones who had decided to leave our abode’s to dance the night away, as we were bumping into familiar faces from the moment we arrived. The drinks flowed, the conversation ran and soon everyone’s thoughts were swaying towards removing ourselves from the pub and onto the club. But not before a quick Chlamydia test had been done.
This wasn’t the first time I had been greeted by two people armed with official looking forms, surrounded by white pots. It could be said that taking a Chlamydia test when you’re 11 months into a happy, committed, relationship is a bit foolish, but at that moment in time it felt that our night would not be complete until we had completed this task, and a task it would be. Peeing in a pot often proves a challenge when one is sober, so I’m sure I needn’t say that it is 100 times harder when drunk; I was certainly hastier than usual in washing my hands after I’d finished.
Finally, we were on our way, but not before we were faced with another obstacle to surpass. Upon exiting the establishment we were greeted by a gentleman who after a bit of light conversation proceeded to tell us: “There’s always one guy who gets all the girls.” It seemed that this man was suggesting that he is one of these guys. We looked at him, dreadlocks, scruffy clothes, dirty shoes, possibly a slight smell circulating around him, and decided this was laughable. We mocked him a little and in the end he walked off and we were free to continue on our journey.
It is at this point that I must turn to the 186 pictures taken that night in order to aid me with the rest of my tale. Although having poured over them many times already to laugh and cringe at the events that were captured, I now must look at them as a storyboard and translate into words the outlandish things that appeared to have taken place.
Naturally, we first made our way to the toilet and then headed straight to the bar. After having purchased our first drinks, I headed towards the seating area with one of my friends and proceeded to spill my drink all over the table. After this, we again found ourselves at the bar, where we bumped into a few familiar faces, purchased our alcohol and then made our way to the dance floor, the main attraction for the evening.
Amidst busting some moves, I brought out the camera once more and began to take some action shots. Just as I was about to snap another picture of one of my friends, a gentleman resembling an anime character tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I’d like him to take a picture of all of us. Oh what a lovely man! I gratefully handed over my camera, joined the rest of the group. We all struck a pose and waited for the flash. Only after he had handed my camera back for me to inspect his photography skills, did I realise two of his friends had high jacked what would’ve been a wonderful picture of me and my friends. Whenever I look back at this picture now, I’ll smile to myself, as I look down at our group, remembering a night of fun...and those two strange ugly men in the background.
As the night progressed we moved from the main room into the cheese room. If we thought we’d been enjoying ourselves so far, we were about to get hit with the party stick and really make the nights Facebook album one worth looking at, depending on your opinion on overexposure that is.
All our inhibitions had been flung out the window and we were ready to get down to business. We were in our element with the music ranging from the Spice Girls and Michael Jackson eventually moving on to Arctic Monkeys and The Fratellis. We all seemed to forget that our skirts had difficulty covering our assets during the simple task of walking, let alone dancing like nobody was watching. The resulting images should probably come with a Parental Guidance label.
The heels were off! We’d comfortably settled in a wide space in the corner, surrounded by tables and cushioned seats that we would soon find were not just useful for holding our drinks and perching our bums on, but also for dancing on. This piece of information became essential in the mystery of the 5 inch gash across my back and the fist size bruise on my inner thigh. It was a shock when I awoke the next day, believing I had just been out clubbing with my friends, to look like I had agreed to an unprecedented surgical procedure. After countless speculations I decided to brush it off and now firmly believe that the resulting damage to my body accumulates to an incredible night.
We dominated said area and danced for hours; no one would have dared try to invade our space, mainly for fear of acquiring injuries similar to my own. We did the Macarena like pros and indulged in some gymnastics as well. I have a fleeting image of standing in front of the mirror in the abandoned toilets, wiping sweat off my face, overlooked by a strange lady who was always standing in the exact same place whenever I entered and exited the room. The calories we must have burnt that night exceed any I could hope to burn during a planned workout.
I think it’s safe to say that my return to alcohol fuelled nightlife has been a successful and unforgettable one. Hopefully this will be the platform for many more summer evenings spent polluting my body and partaking in embarrassing and unflattering moments.
