Everything that will undoubtedly happen at Worcester’s Sin and Bushwackers

“Sindenbush?” – the only word (technically three words, but still) in the English language to inspire equal amounts of disgust, affection, excitement and dread in any one person living within a reasonable radius of Worcester.

Just what is it that makes Sin and Bushies so – tragic? Endearing? Funny? It’s hard to pick one word to sum up the whole experience of a ‘Sindenbush’ night. You probably hate it, but at the same time you’d rather eat a razor blade than go to Tramps, Velvet, or Mode instead of Sindenbush. You probably don’t even know where Velvet is. Does anyone?

There’s the enticing free entry to Sin, of course, which is just too good an offer to refuse. That’s the only reason you’re out on a Thursday. Find yourself on the dance floor listening to the cringiest Justin Bieber song imaginable, repeating “at least it was free, at least it was free” in your head like a mantra. How does everyone know the words to this song? You awkwardly open and close your mouth like a fish, trying to fit in, not drunk enough to really get away with it.

Partly because you stupidly didn’t pre hard enough to cope with Sin, and partly because you’ve just been traumatically hit on by a middle-aged man who may or may not have been your friend’s dad, you’ll meander over to the bar and get your standard six Jaegerbombs for a tenner. What do you mean you’re meant to share them?

You’ve lost your friends and so it is time to endure the trauma of the smoking area. Dimly lit, cramped, strangely laid out – why do people stand right by the door? Why is there a massively long alleyway with a dead end? Why is everything so narrow? You’ll find your friends’ friends, but that’s okay, there’s no awkwardness: your vision started to blur after the fourth Jaegerbomb.

Get back on the floor and practically cry over ‘Will Griggs on Fire’, holding hands with someone you once knew in primary school, trying to dodge the dangerously pointed heel tips of her New Look stilettos. What is the dress code again? She’s wearing a bandage dress and a face full of MAC makeup – you’re wearing leggings and Primark plimsolls. Oh well: get up on the slimy poles and give some sweaty, spotty adolescents the worst lap dance of their lives.

Come 1am and it’s time to move onto Bushies – the ‘proper’ club. Pay the fiver for entry, insist it’s usually £3, have a tiff with your friends outside Alexander’s (“I told you to meet me in the smoking area…”), get over it in minutes, and make the drunken stumble to the welcoming black gates of Bushies, dodging girls vomiting in the gutter and guys pissing in the streets all the while. You’ll question why there are always promoters trying to flog Tramps tickets.

No matter how early you leave Sin, the queue for Bushies is always sprawling down the road by the time you get there, but no matter: those Jaegerbombs are still working their magic.

Get in and do a lap of the smoking area – try and bag a chair if you’re lucky, but most likely you’ll end up sitting awkwardly on your friend’s lap. Steal a cig or two before noticing that you’re surrounded by people you know. There are people you went to school with, people you don’t technically know but you follow them on Instagram (he’s uglier in real life!); people you actually do know (probably should go give them a hug). Tactically avoid people until you can stand it no longer and retreat into the grimy depths of the Crypt.

The walls are sweating, everything is clammy. The person grinding on you is damp. The air itself is humid – the microclimate is that of a tropical rainforest. Shout ‘Ni**as in Paris’ until your throat is raw and then get with a forty-year-old because it’d be a laugh, right? His tongue is so saturated with VKs that you think you might vomit.

Drag your friends upstairs because, yes, you are going to vomit. Have a ‘taccy chun’, get a spritz of perfume from Precious, drag your friends out onto the podium, get an appalling photo snapped of yourselves whilst you’re up there, and spend the rest of the time trying not to fall off.

Retreat at 4am, defeated, to the warmth of Maccies, only another drunken stumble down the road, where the police are likely folding some underage drinkers into space blankets; a girl is hitting her boyfriend on the arm whilst her friends look on, aghast; and your ex is getting with a stranger. But it’s all okay: a 99p cheeseburger awaits you inside. Sindenbush? More like ‘Sindenbushdenmaccies’: for Sin, Bushwackers, and McDonald’s are the Holy Trinity of any night out in Woo Town.