If your clubbing outfit could talk

It would probably tell you it’s too tight


Ever wondered what your outfit says about you on a night out? Let’s face it, the prevailing criteria is usually quite basic.

But what if choosing your outfit for the night had it’s own kind of horoscope, if choosing between the red skater skirt and the blue crop top had some kind of existential consequence?

Well, wonder no further.

Bodycon dress

Look pretty sophisticated don’t I? I conjure images of you laughing in a limo with a glass of champagne and generally looking delighted with life.

Don’t be fooled.

The Bodycon dress is a garment that can reduce even the nicest of young ladies into the most lethal kind of criminal reprobate. Bodycon girls are human grenades, neanderthal hooligans hell bent on destruction, usually including drinking enough to incapacitate a 14 stone rugby player and finish the whole thing off by urinating in the street.

This is probably due to circulation-deficit rage induced by wearing something that cuts off blood flow to your vital organs, appendages and brain. This usually results in temporary loss of all mental faculties and basic social abilities.

It’ll also leave angry red welts all over your body to remind you of your bad life choices.

Red trousers

Red trousers on a bloke on a night out say one thing and one thing alone:

“My name is probably Harry, Giles or Mungo and there’s every probability that I’m also conservative by proxy, with a smoking habit and a pile of bricks in the country.”

This can diverge in two directions: Corduroy or brushed cotton. The brushed cotton variety are Londoners – don’t get the two mixed up.

Most posh people who go to University go with the intention of getting into alternative music, getting a tattoo and generally sticking one to daddy.

Red corduroy gent, however, wears his stereotype like a literal beacon of hope.

If you can sit down and talk to him about horses, art history (by which he means the Stubbs and Schneiders in the family collection), Sotogrande and how nice Somerset is, he probably won’t actually be that much of a dick.

High waisted anything denim

Do you like my choker? It’s from Urban Outfitters, I like to wear it to remind everyone that I’m a free spirit.

These girls have created their own internal microclimate that mysteriously allows them to spend 70% of the night outside in sub zero temperatures without getting even slightly cold.

Despite continuously having a drink in hand, they are never really that drunk. The crop top variety will insist that this is because they prefer drugs, whilst moaning about the difficulties of sourcing MDMA.

In reality, it’s because consuming anything more than a few paltry sips of your preferred beverage (vodka soda) while your midsection is corseted into a denim prison is a very bad idea.

You can practically feel your internal organs shifting into your lungs because there’s no room for half a litre of vodka soda and a pair of kidneys in the same region.

Lacy Bodycon dress/skirt

I’m probably the nicest girl you’re ever going to meet, and you’ll probably meet me in the bathroom.

Confusingly, I am the antithesis of my bandage-bodycon style evil twin; I’ll hold the door for you when the lock’s screwed up, be fully equipped with weird make up things that no one else ever has like eyelash glue and highlighter, and I’ll have a nice, sensible name like Sophie or Katy.

After three minutes of talking to me, you’ll have figured out not only what you’re doing after University, but also how to walk away from your fucked up relationship.

At the end of the night I’ll climb into a taxi and go home with my friends, where I’ll probably be attended by a host of woodland creatures that will fold my clothes and open my curtains in the mornings.

Plain leggings and a t-shirt

I came out completely by accident, and am therefore about to unaccountably have the best night of my entire life. No-one quite understands how this phenomenon works; it’s a bit like the Bermuda triangle or Kate Middletons hair.

Despite my lack of preparation for any kind of partying, I am likely to be found ordering spontaneous tequila rounds at the bar, dancing on the tables until 2 in the morning and participating in photos with people who I’ve never met before.

Unfortunately this is a temporary situation. Tomorrow I will wake up with a disastrously depleted bank account and a collection of bizarre relics from the night scattered around the room.

All subsequent nights out will feel fruitless and arbitrary by comparison. The accidental big night out is a rare and beautiful occurrence but there comes a point where you have to move on.

At least you’ll always have the memories and the pink blow up flamingo that somehow came home with you.