Come On, Buddy, Uber Home, Yeah?

Like a rollercoaster creaking up a crest (you, drinking two bottles of prosecco, six pints of lager, three shots, one pint of Guinness, four more pints of lager, a single Diet Coke), you are destined to pause at the top for a moment (you, doing Spandau Ballet "Gold" on pub karaoke, somehow, because it turns out after you finish it that the pub doesn’t have karaoke) then fall (you, immediately and suddenly hitting a wall out of nowhere, you very drastically sleepy all of a sudden; you, stood outside, hunched over double and trying to take great, huge, heaving gulps of air in an attempt to attain equilibrium), and what I am saying is this: it’s not even 9PM and you’ve hit the wall, so – without even saying goodbye to anyone inside – you swipe up, hail an Uber, cross the road and hop into it, the whole process taking 60 seconds flat, and now you’re sprawled out in the back of it, pissed, jetted with warm air from the in-car heating, 35 minutes from home, and clonk: check your Insta DMs twice then out like a light.

Some imperceptible magic shakes you awake a few metres out from your house, and you stumble upstairs, keys slick through the doors, then fall fully clothed onto your bed with a sigh. It’s not even 10PM. You could feasibly do a tray of oven chips, get into pyjamas and watch an entire film on TV. You could drink five large glasses of water, deep-wash your face and go to sleep, pure and clean and innocent. But no. You lie there for a bit ­– thinking, very hard, about getting up, for about 40 minutes – then do not bother to get up, instead falling asleep with your shoes on and waking up, abruptly, at 8AM the next day, the stink of beer spit on your face, your back aching in a way only sleeping side-on to your bed with your legs dangling off it can make you feel, your room smelling like someone died in it, and that someone was a more innocent version of you.

Full day hangover the next day, don’t even have the mental energy to answer texts. Basically just eat crisps and take not one but two large middle-of-the-day naps. Still feel like refried dogshit at work again on Monday. Mum calls to ask how your weekend was and ends up saying how disappointed she is in you. That sort of thing.

YOU HAVE… FAILED? SATURDAY NIGHT? HARD TO TELL EXACTLY ACTUALLY