Guys night out, unmasked

So you’ve whacked the chinos on, dusted off the semi-grubby converse, pulled on the 1 of 5 shirts you wear outside of your home and straightened your hair till that fidgety quiff is destroyed, you’ve sprayed the aftershave you got at Christmas and MADE SURE you aren’t gonna be that guy who gives off a the B.O scent mid skank. Your hands are still sticky after the half hour spent sculpting your hair and that cheeky tactical wank . We’re now ready to get kerazy

Pre Drinks

“Mine for pre’s?”

No-one’s drunk yet… you realise how little you have in common with everyone there, you quickly shot something to stem the flow of epithets being tossed around to describe artists you don’t really like. Gradually you get more and more drunk, you mix crazy, wrong shit together but it tastes good with all that coke in it. This is usually the point where the queerer bro tells the pack he doesn’t have change for a taxi, and someone else has broken the seal and will constantly need to pee every 15 minutes.

You go to the bathroom, check your pubes, check your teeth, last stop before being inserted into the battle ground. Hooah.

Taxi

Bro 1 “Dude, ring a taxi”

Bro 2 “Fuck you, Okay…*rings* what’s your house number?”

Cab pulls up, ya’ll get in, it’s a seven seater cause the bro’s are back from Uni. The driver automatically hates his life as six Paco Rabanne drenched males embark upon his tragic excuse for a vehicle. Everyone’s on a 30%-55% drunk level.

Banter is thrown, questions are asked.

“Wait, where are we going?” or “£8.10?! Seriously, it’s normally a handful of beans and the powdered horn of a unicorn” (or something else that’s totally fictitious)

Bar

“Nah, I know the bouncer”

“Dude we always get ID’d, I’ve got a goatee I’m clearly older than 18”

You may think that facial hair makes you look like Tyler Durden but no, it just looks like you can’t shave. There’s a giant mass of people pressed against the bar, the room is heaving and the DJ is spinning those dials and you can’t tell if he’s changing the pitch of the incoherent noise or if he’s simply retarded and likes being near giant speakers with knobs to dial. (whatup)

You’re trying to force your way into the front, careful not to bump the 26-year-old builders who are out for a pint(12) and a fight. The woman getting served in front takes out her purse to pay for her Cosmo, you’ve been trying to work out what the front of her head looks like for 10 minutes but now you’re only concern is getting to the bar. This bitch is going to move and you ARE going to get served, she turns, drink in hand (she’s a troll with a nice hair cut, you feel better about not talking to her). You make a crook in your arm and quickly throw it through the air like a fleshy grappling hook, you hit the bar and drag yourself over, you’ve succeeded… now, give the barmaids the ‘come hither’ stare. “Appletini please”

Walk to the bank

“Dude, watch my back”

Damn those cocktails really fuck your wallet. You roll to the bank , the guys crowd round in an attempt to shield the all important pin number as well as huddling for warmth because no one brought a jacket, we don’t pay £2 to have our jackets taken off us

You scan the area, hoping, praying that there are no ‘poor dangerous people’ hanging out on the corners for a piece of fried cuisine…

Club

“How much is it in? what?! So I’ve got £11 quid for the whole night?”

Inside the club now, fucked off the idea of a jacket as previously mentioned because no one wants to throw £2 to have a jacket thrown in a pile and have the added responsibility to keep hold of a little raffle ticket for 3 hours… I could hire a homeless man for a syringe and an Egg McMuffin and he would protect said jacket with his life and his new syringe. Plus easy recovery, leave the club, the dude is still going to be on the street, he doesn’t have anywhere to go. Win win.

Everyone’s on 70%+ drunk now, rising with ever discount shot and reduced-to-sale, Persian larger you’ve never heard of, but fuck it, it’s cheap. Aggression levels in the tattooed dudes drinking brandy and coke because fuck it, they only live once (thanks Drake) are rising. The night is culminating with sweaty dancing, angry stares across the room, girls crying, girls being sick, rating girls out of 10 from the quiet corner where you can kinda hear each other talk

“I’d fuck her” “Bro, I wouldn’t touch her with your dick”





The next 30 minutes are either going to make or break your night. Not doing so well with the chicks? Take 2 shots of whisky, gather weapons and ammo (nuts and charm) and throw a hail Mary, because you just never know.

You’re talking to someone you have on Facebook? You’re either in the friend-zone or you need to show intent, you’ve brought her £12.40 worth of Ameretto and Cranberry’s, don’t let that shit go to waste.

If the worst happens and she’s not interested, but you’ve still spent money and time on her, you have the right to take her panties to satisfy yourself with when you get home. The cotton that grazes the ass a woman is more than fine to cum into. A woman’s vagina is 12th out of 15 preferable places to arrive in, in front of a mouth and behind a jar of marmalade.

However if you’re the lame relationship bro or the dumpy friend, the only thing you’re concerned with is…

Food

“Guys, you wanna eat?”

Often mimed in the club at 2:51, thinking that “if we leave now, we’ll beat the rush” Still, in this drunken state we still know how to shave minutes off our food-to-bed time period immediately after leaving a club.

However while you now have 3 pieces of questionable chicken and undoubtedly a wide selection of Turkish spit and pubic hair in amongst your catch, you have unfortunately taken yourself out of the running for a pull. It’s a bummer but no guy has ever picked up a girl when holding an extra large pizza that cost him the best part of £7. Even if he did manage to strike up a conversation with a woman, said bro would have to choose between 9 inches of pizza or giving a 4/10 (the 7+’s have gone already) your 6 inches… simple mathematics. Not everyone is as lame as that…

Lucky

“How old are you?” … brain: “It’ll be fine”

However if the stars have aligned, your bro has wing manned you to success or the date rape pills are doing their job, you are now close to ranking up. The Anderson account has yet been signed (eh, ehhhh?!) see Pamela:

You still have to get her back to your place and beat the awkward turtles. You lured her with the line ‘Do you wanna see my flat?’ or something equally transparent. You stumble, dodging the puddles of vomit, constantly battling with thoughts “Is she too drunk…” while your alcohol immersed brain plays through various scenarios:

What does my room look like?!

Is that corpse still there?!

Does my bed smell of old hair gel and copious amounts of cry-wank product?!

You get to the door, you hold each other in a passionate embrace, wondering hands move in tandem. Belts are undone, shirts are unbuttoned, panties are flicked to the side and then you throw up and embarrass yourself…