This is what you’re like on a night out, based on your favourite Cardiff club
If you’re out at YOLO, you’re in bed by 1am
City Hall strikes 8pm and the sun has long set over Park Place. You pack away your MacBook at the Centre for Student Life, text your mother to promise you’re eating properly, then rush home to line your stomach with a hearty slice of toast.
Oh yes. It’s a night out tonight, and with less than two hours until pres, you’ll need to hurry it up. Get your attire on and those sambuca shots down you; that’s right. Don’t forget your ID. Now, which club are you off to – and what does it say about you?
You’re loud and boisterous, and after a few vodka-oranges you’re ready to go all night. You moan and say “AGAIN?” every time someone suggests a night out at arguably Cardiff’s most famous club, but secretly you’re thrilled. True, the entrance feels a little like airport security, and that photo booth is plain evil, but that’s part of the fun, no?
You’ll start off in Disco with Dancing Queen and Who’s That Chick, but your attention span isn’t brilliant so you wander off after 10 minutes. Your sworn enemy is bound to be in the smoking area, so there you go for a quick catfight. It’s okay though. Your friends drag you off to Main Room to dance to Dave and watch it rain cheeseburgers before you can get kicked out. Oh, it’s closing time already? No, the night is young.You then head off to Pulse or Ten Mill Lane, returning home in broad daylight.
You obviously like to get hammered. You whine every week that it feels like a year six disco, but the second tickets are on sale, they’re in your basket, along with yet another extremely expensive costume for you to wear with your society. Pres? No time! You like to be out of the door by nine, out of the club by midnight, and safely home with a very fat kebab from Mama’s by 1am at the latest.
Tomorrow, you’ll wake up in the remains of your costume, wonder how you got so drunk when you “only had a few VKs,” and realise you left with a totally different group to the one you arrived with. Oh, and I hate to break it to you, sweetie, but you bumped into both of your exes and begged them both to take you home. Don’t worry, it’s the S.U. Everybody’s too smashed to notice.
Vanilla vodka runs through your veins. You like your cocktails, so much so that clubbing cannot begin until you’ve sat leisurely at the ground floor bar and sipped a pair of Mean Girls or Free The Nipples to get you suitably steaming. When it does begin, you and your friends love to spend half an hour taking glamorous pictures by the Love Island-style fake hedge by the smoking area. That’s all very well and good until the sketchy-looking guy taking the photos for you makes off with your phone. Never mind, Daddy may buy you another tomorrow if you cry a bit.
You’re clumsy. We learn this by watching you fall down the stairs up to the club rooms 14 times; that’s going to leave a bruise, darling. You’re far too fancy for Jägerbombs, so a couple of Pornstar Martinis it is, before you clatter down to Chippy Alley and wash them down with Dorothy’s gravy. Ooh, Dorothy’s gravy.
You’re not a major clubber, in fact you tend to spend your Saturday night cuddled up on the sofa with Heartstopper and a cup of hot chocolate, but every now and then you fancy a boogie, so Liveys it is. Your friends accuse you of being cheap because entry is usually free, but what do they know? You continuously moan that you need a wee until you’re at the very front of the queue.
Don’t deny it, all you want is for the band to go home; then you can clamber onto the stage and jump around to Teenage Dirtbag and Mr Brightside as if you were rocking at Wembley. You love to try random strangers’ Elf Bars in the smoking area, and when you’re done, you’ve just enough energy left to limp over to Maccies across the road and beg them to unlock the toilets for you. Good luck with that, babes.
You’re definitely the Regina George of your course. After taking four hours to get ready, you’re finally here, and clubbing with the clique can begin. You’re far too cool to dance straight away, so you and your friends sway from side to side sassily in front of the photo machine. Then, after a couple of drinks and nagging the bouncers to let you upstairs, the real party begins. As soon as Drake comes on, you all forget yourselves and scream to God’s Plan. You slip on one of the puddles of beer on the floor, but you laugh it off. It’s only pain; no biggie.
You can’t resist stealing the barman’s German-style hat for a cheeky photo, but no sooner than you’ve pouted in front of your iPhone 14 Pro Max are you kicked out for doing just that. Unfortunately, the bouncer doesn’t care how many followers you have, so he doesn’t let you back in. Oh well, what’s on at District?
Wait – people actually go there?