Everything That Can (And Probably Will) Go Wrong On Your Big Night Out This Weekend

Every weekend, and you've got to believe us on this, we enter proceedings feeling positive, upbeat, and resolutely convinced that it's going to be the weekend, the one we've always wanted, the weekend that feels like weekends should. There'll be fry ups and frothy coffees, pints and perfect roasts. We'll step foot in a club and our favourite DJ'll be playing our favourite song. The drink'll be free and the pingers plentiful and we'll wake up the next day feeling amazing and we'll smash that 10k run and enjoy the good natured banter between Tim Lovejoy and Simon Rimmer on Sunday Brunch without wanting to quietly end it all.

Things don't work out like that though. Life gets in the way. Things, often, most of the time in fact, go wrong. Very wrong. With that in mind, we've detailed every single thing that's going to go very, very badly for you over the next 48 hours. Enjoy!

Cor, Tinder, eh? I am writing about Tinder because it's now a legal requirement that any article that's even vaguely, tangentially and tenuously linked to that amorphous blob of STIs and vintage sportswear that we think of as 'young people' must mention Tinder because Tinder is a thing young people use. I have never used Tinder and find the idea of Tinder absolutely repulsive and I once spent an evening watching a mate, who had a girlfriend at the time, joylessly swiping left or right or whatever way it is that you swipe to indicate the person you've swiped that you'd quite like to wipe your bodily fluids off them at some point, and I left the pub and I got a McDonalds on my own and I ate in and I thought about what I was doing and what I'd just witnessed and god, I've never felt sadder in my life. Still, this weekend you'll probably be sat in a Wetherspoons waiting for a boy or girl you've never met to meet you for a few pitchers and a bottle of prosecco before you go to a night in a club in Shoreditch that you don't really want to go to, and they won't turn up, and you'll find yourself sat next to me in McDonalds, eating a Double Cheeseburger, thinking about what a waste of life this life is.

Who would have thought that someone you have shared interests with has turned up at a place that houses one of those interests? Not us. You will now spend the entire night trying not to look at them while simultaneously really obviously looking at them all night. They are all you talk about in the smoking area and in the taxi home and in the lounge when you get back and in the cafe the day after and in the pub after that and the mere sight of them will utterly consume you and ruin your life all over again. Still, Nina Kraviz played a few good tunes.

Deep down the pair of you know that this is nothing more than a bond of nostalgia at its most rankly cloying. Your mums were friends, you've shared baths, he showed you his dick and dry humped a teddy in front of you when you were six, you both ended up getting handjobs at different points in life off the same girl. So now, 22 years after you remember meeting them for the first time, you play out this charade of lifelong friendship. Sure, the texts are fewer and far between, and you didn't even meet them for a pint over the Christmas break, but hey, they'll be in London next weekend and you should totally hang out because it'd be great to catch up, mate, for old time's sake at least, right? And here he is now, pissing himself on a bus before you've ever got to the club. You manage to drag his lifeless body into a club and dump him on a sofa somewhere. The next morning he rings you, crying, from Trafalgar Square. You feign bad signal. You feel a lot less guilt than you thought you would. A primal tie has been severed. A week later his mum rings you. She says Jamie hasn't come home yet.

You've gone home for the weekend, and for old time's sake headed out to the club you went to when you were at sixth form. It's still full of sixth formers, except you're now 24. You suddenly feel like the teacher who takes his students to the pub.

No disrespect to Jamie Jones here because I'm sure he's a lovely bloke and he probably bought his family some really nice Christmas presents and I heard he bought a Big Issue once and he wanted to vote Labour at the last election but he forgot to go to the polling station. This weekend, though, you'll be there with the squad—four lads you've stuck with after university because the the thought of any time alone, genuinely alone, terrifies you to your mediocre, useless core, not because you actually really enjoy their company any more—and you'll have semi-danced your way through a few DJs and your head will start to fill with possibile headliners. After all, the RA listing made a big deal of the SUPER SPECIAL GUEST TBA and you can't call them a SUPER SPECIAL GUEST TBA unless they really are a SUPER SPECIAL GUEST and now that magic moment's here when the TBA dissolves into reality and that reality is you, on shit coke, in a room full of people you don't want to be around, pretending you give a toss about Jamie Jones. He smiles at the crowd. The crowd whoop at him. You sneak into the bogs for a line and a cry.

I got beaten up once, it was fucking horrible. I was in Portsmouth, which is bad enough, and somehow I managed to walk into two different punches at two different points in the evening. I literally walked into two separate people who were trying to punch other people. This will happen to you this weekend except someone will actually be trying to beat you up because you're a sarcy little cunt and you looked at his pint for too long.

At which point you will 100% bump into that smug bloke you went to school with, with the nice shirts, the one who you can't quite explain to everyone else why don't like him but you just know he's a wrong'un. You'll bump into him and his good looking friends and you'll suddenly realise how fucked you must look so you'll just mutter, "alright," and shuffle past him into the smoking area, where you'll chain smoke 4 cigarettes, and play on your phone, until 35 minutes later somebody finds you.

You were sure you'd nailed it this time, they were deep enough in the sock, tucked far enough behind your balls or stuffed far enough into your bra. By now, you've got your poker face perfected, you're asked "good evening, how we doing?" Without a moment's thought you shoot back an eerily convincing, "not bad ta," as if you don't have 4 pills resting peacefully against your gooch like quails eggs. You're patted down briefly, but that's no problem, you've got this on lockdown. "Empty your pockets for me?" Not a problem pal, I'll empty my pockets. There's only a few filters, £3.87, a lighter, phone and wallet in there anyway pal. Absolutely smashed it, you think as the unsuspecting bouncer starts leafing through your wallet, completely under the radar, you say to yourself as he removes one of your credit cards, nothing to see here, you mutter as he pulls out the half gram of gak you'd left in there from two weeks before. Fucked it.

You, dancing in the club, like Drake, lmao.

Which is totally disgusting because DJing on vinyl is the only real way to DJ and…fuck me, sorry everyone, I nearly started to actually care about what format DJs play their music on.

What's this guy's problem? I mean, yes, we did play "Lean and Bop" twelve times through his AUX cable, drop a bit of kebab meat into his glove compartment and lecture him on how Uber threatens independent taxi drivers with unfair competition for a while. But we also called him a legend.

Don't forget to wash your hands!

It'll be a video where someone's HILARIOUSLY layered the bit in Alan Partridge when Alan Partridge hilariously says the name "Dan" a lot, over "Get Get Down" by Paul Johnson. You'll have to use every fibre of your being not to knock the prick's shit wooly hat off.

Mate, you've really fucked it here. Really fucked it. Massively fucked it. Royally fucked it. Mate, you've had a total fucking massive royal mare. What you've done, you see, is let yourself escape the moment, and you've started hovering above the dancefloor and you're listening to every inane conversation in the smoking area and you're seeing every pill-rotted penis in the toilets being shaken in unison, and you're eyeing the tills noticing how much the bar have taken in that night, and you've seen the dealer's lounge with it's fishtank and massive telly and one of those Philippe Starck lemon juicers, and it's all gone wrong. You're surrounded by morons. Listening to music they don't really like. You can't remember why any of you are there. And then, as they always do, the muscles in your jaw start to clench and you remember, with a sense of resignation and ennui, why you're there. And you remember that every time you do this you tell yourself you'll never do it again. But you do.

Well this is nice, all of us gathered together to round off the evening in the spirit of true communality. "Go on, I'll have one toke," you say, breathing in and passing it along. It's been a really great evening guys, honestly wouldn't have changed a thing. "A little bit of ket as well? Alright go on then." The music was on point, you've been great company, we've laughed, we've danced, had some great chats. "Yeah go on, I'll have a couple more drags," I've even come away with a few new friends! "One more bump, alright." And you know what, best of all, the world is now refreshing every five seconds and I can't remember what I was saying at the start of this sentence or why I'm now dribbling, watching Daybreak and everyone else has gone to bed.

Going out, eh? We love it!

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