- It started with cider in the student bar, then someone mentioned a sound system manned by a bunch of crusties was kicking off outside Whitney, or Cirencester. So you’re crushed into the back of a Golf and someone is passing you ‘some exceedingly rare red seal‘. For about 2 hours you circle ring roads. By 3am you’re trudging across a muddy field towards the sound of a banging bass bin, a plastic bag of Red Stripe clanking against your shins. Excellent night already.
- “He’s called Ben and you’re going to love him!” swore his mate. He suggests a gastropub, and after you’ve had half a bottle of Camp Viejo to steady your nerves, you reckon he’s alright. When he picks up the bill for the gourmet sausages and lemon tart, you have no hesitation in inviting him back. He then spends too long teasing you about your collection of Carlos Casteneda and Tom Robbins, by which time you’ve sobered up and have realised he has terrible teeth. Minicab.
- Tabs lives miles away but she shares a house with some very good looking actor types so the two bus journeys and half a mile walk is totally worth it. By the time you arrive, there are over 40 people blocking the front door, smoking Marlboro lights and swigging out of wine bottles. You fight your way through to the kitchen where everyone has been putting out their fags in the vodka punch and there are no plastic tumblers left. All Together Now by The Farm comes on and the entire house erupts into a synchronised bounce. A sightly wobbly bloke grabs you by the hand and drags you into the melee. You then make some decisions you later regret.
- It’s the launch party of a vodka brand and your mate knows someone who does the PR and has scored a guest list. Jarvis Cocker is going to be there, plus the entire crew of TFI Friday; which means that runner you’ve had a crush on since he mistakenly snogged you 9 months ago will definitely be there. Only a trip to Hyper Hyper can solve this wardrobe challenge, and one entire monthly pay cheque later you are clothed head to toe in a red velvet pant suit. You rock up shortly before midnight. Once there, you discover a queue around the block and – eventually – that your names are not on the list. Tears.
- Friday night is clubbing night, which means everyone spends three hours getting ready in the nearest flat, playing records so loud the neighbours are hammering on the wall. By the time everyone has downed an entire bottle of warm Freixenet (no ice, freezer is broken), laddered their tights and re-done their make-up twice, it’s time to stand in the freezing cold queue. Inside someone puts something on your tongue that makes you entirely forget the next three hours but apparently it involved a podium and a bloke called Steve. As dawn breaks you find yourself in Steve’s flat with about 15 other people you’ve never met before, no coat but a bottle of vodka in your hand. Score.
By Tiffanie Darke, author of Now We Are 40: Whatever Happened to Generation X
