The Sneaker Outers: They evacuate the building alone or with someone without informing the rest of the group. The group, only realising much later due to crowds and alcohol suddenly go: “Say…where the fuck is Chris?”
The Smash It In Your Facers: There are two categories of Smash It In Your Facers. The boozers, as in “I’m off to down ten Jaegermeisters,” and then does it. And the other category are those that lunge or end up snogging something in a dark corner all evening. Or graunch more than one thing in the evening. Both categories usually merge – one doesn’t work without the other, type of thing.
The Saturday Night Fevers: Alcohol makes them think they can dance. They also mostly think they dance as well as a black person, but they don’t. They do the Macarena, or the Electric Slide, The Running Man or The Fandango across the dancefloor, or like I’ve seen at the Colony Arms: break dance. Badly. You can tell who has the potential to be a Saturday Night Fever: they have no co-ords, they always scream “This is my song!” and rush off to wow the crowds in the centre of a circle. I’m one of these.
The Sentimentalists: “I love you. You’re my best friend. You are going to be the godmother to my children.” They hug their friends (and anyone else passing by usually) compulsively, and often this ritual ends with tears, hugs and more “You’re just my best friend ever.”
The Aace Targets: The one’s who stomp up to you and demand “China, did you just frow me wiff a piece of aace [ice]? And then try to punch anything in sight.
The Fightey Couples: They argue about something they don’t remember about the next day. Like innocent flirting, or she flashed her tits, or he didn’t remember her mother’s second name.
The Lovey Dovey Face Suckers: couples that might as well not go clubbing, because they’re attached to each other and are getting stuck in as though nobody else is actually there.
The Let’s Do Something Cray-zeeeeee’s: Drive their cars into the bushes after exiting the club because they thought it would be funny, take all their clothes off and streak in public, steal road signs and traffic cones, take more than one person home at once, or try to climb out of windows when the door is open.
The Please Take Me Home’s: Your mate isn’t having as swell a time as you, or vice versa. She’s seen her ex boyfriend and is whining in your ear about it. Or you’ve seen your ex boyfriend snog something and all you want to do is go home and wail about into your pillow. Or everyone else is pissed and you’re not. Waiting to be taken home is as shitty as having a mate want you to take her home when you’re dancing on the ceiling.
The Messy’s: They vomit on the bar counter, drool beer all over themselves, their faces drop and they can’t talk, they’ve passed out under a speaker cradling a bottle of cane, or they’re throwing their name all over the place – but not in a funny way.
The No But Of Course I Can Drivers: They’re so pissed, they leopard crawl to their cars and still insist they can drive even though they can’t find the keyhole.
Usually an argument ensues, where someone tries to get hold of their keys, or a “fine, fuck up your life and kill someone.” Followed by “Fuck off, I’m perfectly fine for godsh shake. I only had shix drinksh.”
Usually a sharp slap or another drink to make them pass out sorts out the problem.
The Nap Overers: You only know once you get the phone call the next day.
“Shit fuck shit. I slept over at Clifford’s place. Again.”
Or “Do you remember the name of the guy sleeping next to me?”
Or “How do I get out of here without waking him up?”
Or “I met the most incredible oke last night, fuck I wonder if he’s going to phone me? Do you think he will? Why hasn’t he phoned me yet?”
Or “I got laid. It was good. A much needed, necessary shtoinking. But moving on.”
The scary thing is we’ve all been those things at one time or another. Or in many circumstances, all of the above on one night.
I know I have.