If you go back to bed right now, you die. You die. You just die. Dying, we all agree, is the least cool thing you can do, so you have now by default failed at Saturday night. I’m disappointed in you, but you’ve made your choice. You die. Your mum comes down from whatever weird cottages-and-farm-shops town she moved to with that Kevin guy she met at Zumba and she’s just weeping, dressed all in black, holding a handkerchief to her papery eyes, very Victorian griever, your mother, apparently.
"My perfect angel son or daughter!" she cries, gnashing at your soiled bedspread. All your housemates are very uncomfortable about this because you died on the 20th of the month and it’s very short notice for them re: finding someone else to move into your room. One of them is going to have to ask your mum very politely to see if she can cover the £700 you owe for next month. “Not now!” she says. Oh what, so now all your housemates have to cover your rent? This is so thoughtless, man. This was such a thoughtless time for you to die. Who’s going to clean those Hula Hoops up?
YOU HAVE FAILED AT SATURDAY NIGHT