POV: A typical night out
A student night out is a well-known staple of university life. The awkward stage before anyone is feeling their Cleanskin, the debate on the true rules of King’s Cup, the dreaded clean-up when you wake up next to a vomit bucket and the neglected glass of water and Panadol you left out for yourself the night before. Even though nights like these feel routine, for some reason we keep coming back for more.
Depending on your budget, deciding what to drink is often where your night begins. If you’re poor, you’ll hunt and gather around your flat for any drinks left over from previous pres. The goal here is to find as many standard drinks as possible. Tonight, the spoils were; half a box of Billy Mavs, one lonely cider and nearly a whole box of Lion Browns (don’t ask). In terms of the recipe for a brutal hangover, this would be ideal, but it’s the day after pay day and you’re feeling fancy. You head down to the liquor store and stroll the chiller, taking in whatever hot new RTD is on special at Big Barrel. In the end, you decide to get back with an old flame and pick up a sugar-free Nitro. Pleased with your selection but confident that it won’t be enough to get fucked up, you head back to your flat knowing you’ll be forced to pre with whatever the fuck goes into a can of Lion Brown.
Back at the flat it’s all go, you line your stomach with shitloads of pasta and get dressed, stopping only for the occasional chug of what has to be the world’s most disgusting beer. Tasting notes are piss and the feeling of walking on a sticky floor. On this particular night, you’re lucky enough to know the host of the party so you head in early for the awkward set-up of recycling bins for empties and tinkering with the appropriate volume for the UE Boom. The people of the inner circle have arrived, some still getting ready for the night ahead. We sit around the coffee table and decide to play a drinking game, God forbid we sit around and talk to each other about anything meaningful. We decide to try out that game one of us saw on TikTok. We take turns blowing on a deck of cards until one of us knocks off the final one, feigning disappointment that we have to drink, as if we didn’t come to this event for that very purpose. Eventually we move on to King’s Cup, the Never Have I Ever questions start off generic like “never have I ever had sex in a car”. Eventually, the questions get specific and deeply personal. “Never have I ever had my dad leave when I was four, taking the family dog with him,” kind of vibes. The tension of airing each other’s dirty laundry is broken by a knock at the door.
We all stand up, some of us realising for the first time that we are in fact, drunk, and go put dibs on the beer pong table. There’s some healthy debate about the legitimacy of some peoples ‘house rules’ but eventually the game is in full swing and the trash talk has started. Every time someone plays beer pong, they act like they’re Olympic athletes, lining up their shots with the precision I’m sure their lecturers wish they would apply to their proof reading. One team is crowned the winner and the house is starting to fill up which means it’s time to mingle. Most of the chats start by asking how people know the host, a fair few of the responses are just “I don’t, I’m a plus one”, and you start to wonder whether the host has any friends at all. One of the flatmates is smoking weed in her bedroom and the absolute stoner fiends of this event are sniffing out the source like fucking blood hounds.
Eventually there’s six of them in the bedroom, desperately trying to get a puff of some of that good-good.
The house is full now and there’s a huge fucking line for the one toilet. The people blessed with penises are happy as, pissing out the window into some of Wellington’s finest bush. The girls in the bathroom line are best friends now, they follow each other on Instagram and are pointing out to each other which window pisser is the love of their life. In the toilet, someone’s managed to break the toilet seat, so relieving yourself is now a case of precariously balancing over the bowl making sure you aren’t impaled by the sharp bit of plastic you’re squatting over. The party outside sounds like it’s winding down but someone’s found a skateboard and is showing everyone their kickflips.
We’re all kicked out to town, squinting at number plates trying to figure out which Toyota Prius is our ticket to the golden gates of Courtney Place. In the Uber, we ask our driver about their night, it’s been busy, much better than last weekend, he finishes at 5am. The line to the club is long but you’ve made more best friends waiting to enter. At the front of the line, you tell the bouncer you’ve only had a couple, while confidently handing him your eftpos card instead of your ID. He lets it slide because you’re hot and you enter the club, a remix of Taylor Swift’s Love Story blaring through the speakers for some reason. You form a protective ring with your friends, letting the occasional guy in when he passes the vibe check. Your friends dancing with some guy in an open flannel shirt and a band tee, you raise your eyebrows at her to make sure she’s okay, after an affirmative nod you get back to dancing.
Your friend is yawning during a DNB remix of Gangnam Style so you decide it’s time to call it a night. You head to Macca’s and put your order in for a double cheeseburger and a Kiwi Blue water, you’re responsible. When you get outside you realise an Uber 10 minutes up the road is going to cost you thirty fucking dollars. You hop on an e-scooter clutching your McDonald’s back like it’s your lifeline. Zooming past the hordes of drunk people you see your flat on the horizon and your bed is calling you. You sit on the couch, ears still ringing from the club. You munch your burger with heavy eyes and head to bed, room spinning.