So we’ve all been there, on the way to the pub when suddenly on arrival you’re hit with a wave of realisation. It’s Wednesday. It’s Socials night. Everywhere you look there is a multitude of colourfully clad groups wandering, some already staggering, towards the various nightspots in the vicinity of Bevois Valley.
Imagine the TellyTubbies without a sense of balance or direction, at which point you realise the guy with the aerial on his head is following his society’s dress code. Oh and as we all know, the queues are longer than the one in Sainsbury’s on moving in weekend….
By this point you’ve been queuing for ten minutes or so and by the look of the size of crowd inside, you’d rather be paying the door fee to leave. However you don’t want to complain to the portly bouncer because you don’t know which of his chins he will take it on.
Either way, your youthful exuberance is wiped away as you look through the threshold and see the crowding hordes flashing loyalty cards and childish stamp collections in the faces of bar staff who’s only resolve lies in the thundering metallic music emanating from the jukebox… that a Justin Bieber fan has just discovered how to work.
Here comes the strange part, if you aren’t at the bar with a mate, yet you’re still lucky enough they haven’t left you entirely with a pat on the back in a feigned show of “go on lad, get the round in” before they scarper, then waiting for a drink is where the hallucination begins. You’re a bit drunk because of the inevitable success that only the famed British tradition of pre-drinking can bring, or maybe because this is the third night out in a row this week and you still haven’t sobered up.
Basically everything is blurry and vivid and you do a double take when you see the Mad Hatter walk out of the gents.
You know what I mean right? There’s the colourfully dressed society members, the radioactively bright drinks, the richly dyed hair of the regulars. All this while the music pounds through you combines with your state of inebriation to make your field of vision temporarily that of the side of the Mystery Machine.
Also the drinks look louder than the music, each one bubbling away like a dodgy morning wee after a heavy night before. It helps if you’re a fan of Lord of the Rings, especially when you stand there trying to remember if your mate wanted a Frodo or a Faramir. The best part is when you see a newbie ask for a Rivendell and the look he gets from the barman whilst his friends wet themselves laughing behind.
Maybe its just a rite of passage that you go through because moments later you’ve got your rather boring pint of lager after the other night where you had one too many Gandalfs. Long story short you thought you had the magical ability to stop traffic when a mate explains that you were at a zebra crossing… After all that you inevitably have a good night though. Someone must have yelled “time for Tubby bye bye” because the guy with the aerial on his head has gone; either that or he’s on the roof trying to find a signal. Its not long before you find a lovely quiet corner and you’re sitting as far away from the tones of Beiber as you can, raising your glass and saying “cheers” to another quiet night at the pub.