It’s fair to say that I’m not the only one who can share this story; we’ve all been there and know exactly how it pans out. It’s been a long week slaving away in the Eddy B, you’ve had enough of reading and seminar prep and just want to wind down, which being a student of course means going out for a couple of cheeky drinks.
However, you blew your weekly allowance last week and embarrassed yourself in front of your recent crush, so agree that a big night out clubbing is off the cards. Then one of your friends comes up with the brilliant idea of quiet drinks in the Terrace; Fruity Friday, however, is strictly forbidden. At the time you all convince yourselves that this is the plan and that you will stick to it, BUT when will we ever come to learn that this coined phrase is almost a jinx and a true recipe for disaster?
It was only last Friday when this happened to me. Getting ready at my house with the girls, and we’ve all decided on the smart casual look – jeans, a nice top and heels; a perfect outfit for this type of occasion. At the last minute, I decide to change my long sleeved top just in case we do end up in fruity, although minutes before we have all agreed that we will definitely not be attending (somewhere in the back of my mind I know the outcome before it’s even occurred). Having not pre-lashed, we arrive at the Terrace at a respectable time and get the drinks in. We gradually become drunker and drunker; the songs playing become more upbeat, and we’re soon off our seats and up dancing. Now don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with this kind of behaviour, it’s a Friday night and everybody is out just to have a little bit of harmless fun.
The clock ticks on and soon it gets to 12pm; by this time it is fair to say that we are suitably drunk and probably aren’t thinking rationally. We’ve been chatting to a group of hot guys for the past hour, and considering that two of us girls have already “shot-gunned” two of them, it isn’t really in any of our interests to leave their side any time soon. One of them turns to us and asks the inevitable question, “So girls, are you heading downstairs to Fruity”? We look up at him in awe then share a knowing look amongst us and simultaneously nod our heads and shout over the music,“ Yeah sure, why not?” There we go, the words which we promised each other wouldn’t come out of our mouths tonight just did. Peer pressure is an absolute killer.
As we had falsely convinced ourselves that we were by no means going to be persuaded to go to Fruity, we needed to queue up and purchase last minute tickets (something which we, and I expect lots of others, are fairly used to). After waiting for 5 minutes, we are finally prepared for a night of debauchery in none other than our Union’s finest venue.
Walking down the stairs is when the first disaster occurs – I trip over my heels and fall over in front of the scary looking bouncer. He almost doesn’t let me go any further due to having consumed too much alcohol, but my friend manages to convince him otherwise with her womanly charms. Oh the perks of being a girl. The night only becomes more disastrous from here onwards.
Stylus is too packed, so we head to the R&B room. We then think that it is OK to start a dance battle in the middle of the dance floor, bearing in mind none of us can really dance that well. Thankfully, I don’t remember much of this and have deleted any photo evidence! Our new group of guy friends have now run away thinking that we are absolute mad women, and out of the 5 of us who came out it is only me and one other girl left in the club. The two of us now decide enough is enough and jump in a cab home. We stop off at Zulfis, as that is obviously the right drunken thing to do after a night out and share what seems to be, at the time, the best tasting pizza in the world. I have no idea what time we actually arrived home, but nevertheless we made it back safe and sound.
8am the next morning, and the sound of that dreaded BlackBerry alarm is ringing in my ears. My head is in pain, my legs are covered in bruises and I wake up to a text from a guy I used to date asking me if I’d ever considered a career in break dancing. Oh dear. When will we ever learn that quiet drinks always results in shameless antics and, most importantly, FRUITY FRIDAY RUINS LIVES!!!