home Humour The Five Stages of a Night Out

The Five Stages of a Night Out

I’m no psychologist, but I did accidentally walk into a psychology lecture during freshers week so you know what? I am a psychologist (take that Freud, you dirty old perv) and today I will be speaking to you all about my stunning new theory. It’s one that I’m sure will make waves in the community, and win me many accolades, due to its in-depth research, stunning conclusions and on account of me being generally class. I call this The Five Stages of a Night Out.


You sit in your room, ready for a night of hardcore study and good quality sleep, you rebel, you; when you hear the party beginning. You brace yourself as your roommates barge into your room, covered in a cloud of Lynx so noxious they should be taken in for chemical warfare. They inform you it’s gonna be the biggest party yet, bigger even than the legendary Freshers rager in apartment nine when someone vomited on the night warden and another absolute hero defecated on a flip flop (both students have since left UCC to follow stellar careers in basket weaving and jam making respectively). You refuse, you have an important Philosophy test at nine o’clock. They call you a dry shite. You know you’re gas craic, but it hurts none the less. You hear the chime of beer bottles, sweeter than any church bells, the thump of shitty techno. You leave your room and enter the kitchen where your roommate offers you a drink.


“Yeah sure fuck it why not.”


You’re in your tightest jeans, so tight they have your nuts in a stranglehold and you’ll probably be sterile within the hour, but what harm, you look good.

Before the party you stock up in the local Tesco, standing in the drinks aisle you feel as giddy as a child on Christmas morning, or an alcoholic in the Tesco drink aisle. You vastly overestimate yourself and buy vodka and eight cans, all Tesco own brand. You’re thrifty like that.

The vodka is gone before you even enter the party. Heart racing with anticipation, stomach cramping with alcohol poisoning, you’re ready to make an absolute tit out of yourself.

The girls of apartment sixteen have gone all out, the walls of the kitchen are adorned with fairy lights, transforming the room from a messy student flat, to a poorly lit, messy, student flat. Magical.

The room spins as the vodka goes to your head and your vision blurs, but not before you see the angel standing in the corner, shining, looking straight at you. You give her a slack jawed smile and a cross eyed look of seduction. It’s on.

You bust out your best lines;

“Is that your real nose?”

“Haven’t I harassed you on Tinder before?”

“Are you a vegan? You look like a vegan.”

They work, because of course they do, and soon you’re locking lips. It’s electric.


As the party goes quiet you realise, the love of your life is actually a lamp, you shifted a lamp. People begin to leave. The party is truly over when someone starts dry humping the light fixtures.

The taxis drop you off at the club, you wait for five hours in the line, get groped by a bouncer, pay your life savings to get in and hope the night gets better. It doesn’t.

You stand in the smoky, poorly lit disco, staring into your drink, having an existential crisis as all those around you have fun. You think about the big things: Why are we here? Is there a God? Why won’t that girl over there shift me? Is the robot still an acceptable dance? Even when done ironically? Will that lamp call me back?

You stumble out of the club early, not crying at all, I swear, shut up, no I’m not; and head to the nearest fast food place. You find every restaurant is full, with roughly half the population of China in each, so you crawl home instead, promising yourself you’ll make something when you get back.

You try, and it’s the thought that counts I suppose.


You wake up covered in grated cheese and uncooked pasta. Again. Your head feels like you’ve been hit with the Norton Anthology of English Vol.1 (for non-English students, it’s the size of a baby elephant) and your liver feels about the same. You’ve disappointed your family, your friends and most importantly, your dog. You’re never drinking again. Ever. You make that solemn promise to yourself as your roommate comes in to inform you that you vomited in the fridge, also that there’s a party in apartment nine tonight: are you going?

“Yeah sure fuck it why not.”