Every crisis of conscience you have before going to your local nightclub

To go out or to stay in, that is the question.
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LET’S SET THE scene – it’s 6pm of a Saturday evening.

You’ve made it home from Dublin/’out foreign’ for the weekend. A fierce internal debate is ensuing.

Should you go ‘out out’ – inevitably meaning a trip to your local nightclub?

Sure, your local has a certain quaint charm to it that occasionally gives you the warm and fuzzies around the likes of Stephen’s Night. (That could also just be the cheap vodka reoccurring on you though).

But, for the most part, whether it’s Club C in Cobh (the ‘C’ stands for ‘Commodore’, FYI), or Fusion in Drogheda, it’s essentially a room with a smoking area full of people you haven’t seen in years – for good reason.

On the one hand, you’re obliged to grace the town with your presence, so as to ensure that nobody forgets about you (God forbid).

And it’s either that, or spend another night in with your folks watching Saturday Night with Miriam.

A decision as big as this requires a logical thought process …

Who’s going?

If there’s a good crew going, you’ll more than likely be cajoled into going, so resign yourself to that now.

Also, if there’s a good crew going, there’s potential to have good craic.

The more people that come out also minimises the chances of you being cornered by that guy you shifted in Transition Year who never really got over it.

Alternatively, you can be guaranteed that the clientele on any given night remains the exact same. So you have to prepare yourself to have the same drunken conversation with whatever unfortunate you cornered last time.

“So what are you doing with yourself nowadays?”

Am I arsed changing?

After a good weekend spent sleeping in and wearing in pyjamas, ‘a nice jeans and a top’ even seems like a stretch.

As well as that, you can visualise the parade of proud 16-year-olds in their teeny tiny dresses and towering heels, fake ID safely tucked away in their Penneys clutch. You hear yourself make the same clucking noise your mother does at the sight of them.

You are not going out.

Can I bring myself to give money to an establishment that has robbed me of so much?

But it’s only €3 before half 11 though. If anything, it wouldn’t be economically sound not to go. Right?

Right?!

Do I really want to spend all night in the smoking area?

“C’mon!’ your friends will plead. “We’ll go for a dance! We’ll be together the whole night!”

Approximately four minutes after arriving:

“Will you come to smokers’ with me?”

… Where you will proceed to spend the rest of the night, unbeknownst to yourself. YOU DON’T EVEN SMOKE.

Do I really want to spend the entirety of Sunday hungover?

There’s something about our own locals that rob us of our common sense.

Once you step over the threshold, jaegerbombs and ‘barman specials’ become the drinks of choice, and what began as “ok, I’ll go for one”, very quickly transitions into “sorry Dad I don’t think I’m able for the roast dinner today”.

And nothing to show for it but regret and multiple drink receipts.

Source: Flickr

Can I face the aftermath of attempting to get a taxi?

Nobody in your household has heard of Hailo, let alone MyTaxi.

And it seems every weekend you come home there’s one less taxi driver on duty.

You envisage yourself standing in town, snackbox in head, mournfully waiting for a lift home.

Source: Supermacs

You can’t do it again. You just can’t.

Do I want to be a dry-balls?

Listen – you’re never home. Your friends are sweatin’ to see you and give you all the gossip from the town where seemingly nothing happens and yet everything happens.

And do you really want to come across like the guy or gal that went off, made a name for themselves and became “too good” for Maniac 2000?

See yiz in smokers x

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