I can't be bothered with lining up for the bar when at home I have the privilege of walking to a fridge, opening a can, and sitting down. And might I add, I have never had to yell three separate times "CARSLBERG!!" before getting what I've been waiting 29 minutes for, then fumble about awkwardly in my pocket for the peasant's income lining my pockets next to the snapped cigarette and flyer for a strip bar I never intend to visit, all while pressed tightly against other people who all seem to be having a wonderful time in what is basically a really crowded tram carriage with mind-numbing noise and dimmed lights.

On your way back in, you almost lose a tooth to the mistimed fist of a participant in a nearby fight over who looked at Mandy's tits back in 1995.After managing to get my drink it will inevitably be spilled by some arm-flailing drunken nugget named Wayne who dances like a 5-year-old who just found a biscuit with chocolate on the other side of it under the old sofa in the garage to the synthetic sounds of JLS, which to me sound like a bunch of sterilized altar boys yelling from the bottom of a well while their abusive deacon plays the vocorder incredibly loud so as to distract from the painful screams of abuse.

After waiting half an hour to have my beverage spilled, my bladder decides to scream to my brain, "Empty me you big scary bitch!" so then it's time for the loo, where you can wallow in the joy of waiting to step inside a dank chamber with two inches of piss filling the floor while you release your yellow tsunami in between two pissheads discussing who gets to finger Betty in the taxi on the ride home.

Crowded bar with lots of people
I already can't hear, now it's just a matter of getting drunk enough not to see or remember.
After enduring what is amazingly only two pressures, drinking and pissing, you decide maybe you should just get so drunk that the entire painful experience is a big blurry blank blissful forgotten period of the week. Then you're suddenly reminded that you can't get too paralytic, since there's always a chance you could get kicked out of the bar, an unusual standpoint for a place that sells alcohol. This leaves you the option of enjoying a sweet tobacco inhale—a bliss that is quickly taken away when you're rounded up into a yard that looks like a prison exercise court with other coughing cretins while you try and heave your way through your cigarette without succumbing to cancer or frostbite, depending on your immune system and the weather.

On your way back in, you almost lose a tooth to the mistimed fist of a participant in a nearby fight over who looked at Mandy's tits back in 1995, causing her to have a breakdown and take up a job basket-weaving in the Himalayas. If ever you find those people within the sea of glowsticks, V-neck tops, and self-satisfaction, rest assured they're either demonstrating what an aneurism looks like on the dance floor or playing tonsil hockey with The Joker's anorexic daughter. There will be no nearby seats, but that's okay because you'll be stuck to the floor by dozens of spilled alcopops, proving that those liquid Toblerone's are far more effective as industrial adhesives than beverages.

Eddie Stobart truck
Keep on truckin', you're going nowhere in this bar.
Should I encounter a member of the opposite gender that makes me think, "She has few friends and even fewer standards," I might make an approach like a blind person into an oncoming Eddie Stobart truck. Communication is made impossible when all my ears can pick up is the music of what sounds like five million ambulances chasing four million fire trucks, and because I'm tall with a bushy beard, she probably assumes I'm attempting to interest her by discussing which amphibians feel good in what orifice anyway.

After you've managed to avoid dying from being sick into your own bitterness, you round up you posse, wade through the orange vomit at the entrance and make your exit. Bored, near penniless, and not drunk enough, you head for the best part of the night: the takeaway before the taxi home.


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