No other night in the calendar week has such an electric well of potential beneath it than Friday night. Just close your eyes and say it, now: Friday night ( sequin dresses and a thumping toilet door and you yelling “FOUR PINTS PLEASE, MATE”, hoarse over the morass at a bartender you’ve queued 20 minutes to see). Friday night ( you are pissing through a chainlink fence while the blue flash of police lights circle in the background). Friday night ( sprinting for the last tube and just as you make it through the door a group of eight girls in big coats and deely boppers and ornate facial glitter patterns giggle at you happily like a puppy). Friday night ( fish, chips, three cans of Red Stripe and a wank).
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You can do anything on Friday night. You can be anyone. You can get so, so, so so drunk. Friday night extends its cold dark hand to you. The night beckons. What are you saying?
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