The stages of every night at Craic’s 90

Finishing work at 11 o clock on a Tuesday night – do you go home to bed? Negative. Get that wee text at half ten: “Craic’s the night?”

You pull up in your taxi solo after getting changed in the work toilets and smudging some glitter on your eyelids. All your mates are ball-bagged from the pre but you know in 20 minutes it won’t matter.

The queue can be a struggle, but getting a cheeky nod from the bouncers instead of a “not tonight luv” really warms your heart.

The next battle is paying in. The trick to this is to pay with a note so you get as many pound coins as possible then it’s straight over to flirt with the VIP bouncer with the man bun.

It’s important to try and get into the fancy bar so you don’t have to wait with the mass of culchies for your Sambuca shot.

You spy a sterner bouncer heading for you and you make a swift retreat – can’t be getting that “you’re barred” X marked on your hand this early in the night, save that for later when you’re involved in a brawl in the smoking area.

So to the bar you go, handing all your pounds to those lucky enough to have squeezed themselves in to the front row.

Four drinks at a time requires strategic planning – one will be required to get the shots while the other will get the staple of Craic’s 90: 4 blue’s.

These are the finest most elite WKD’s in all the land (or VHF… whatever). After demanding the lemon and salt for your tequila shots and GULP, it’s off to the dance floor to bust some shapes.

Blues are being handed to you left, right and centre- you’re on a mad one feeling like Ice Cube. Around this time everyone starts throwing their money around on shots and you will be just as gone as the rest of the crew, if not worse.

Eventually you’ve had your fun and make the journey to the second floor. After the struggle up the stairs you emerge like a star walking through the smoke machine.

Suddenly Ice Cube melts to a glittering Hannah Montana as you make your way to the stage, swishing your hair to the beat of the never overplayed Macarena.

You and your squad own the stage – few drinks thrown at the millies getting in the way of your flailing limbs but that can’t be helped. Your mate’s yappin in the ear of the DJ who never fails to ignore her pleas to play Justin Bieber because, at the end of the day, they don’t actually take requests.

“OY FKIN OY’s” and “Yeoo’s!” fill the room.

One of the troop has had to one too many and needs a trip to the ladies. No bother, off you go swinging along the bars at the side of the stage like you’re in a music video for Destiny’s child.

You arrive at the toilets which is a more like a living room with the odd comfy chair here and there. You do your business (3 girls to a cubicle obviously) and stumble out to be greeted by a lovely lady named Lizzie, who will sort you out with a Chubachub- or even a cheeky spritz of Charlie for a quid (told you those pound coins would come in handy).

The night starts to draw to a close, the fists that once punched proudly into the air are now bobbing at shoulder level. The music slides to a stop as the yellow lights come on.

Couples who have been courting each other all night jump away as they realise those they thought were around an 8 are actually a strong 2.

All traipsing out together to make the next journey of the night across the bridge to McDonald’s, unless you’re a mug who fights for the taxis outside.