Every single reason why Digi in Newcastle is the hometown club you love to hate

It was your first night out. First one night stand. First drunken endeavour that led to smashing your phone on the stage, kissing your childhood bestie and then chundering in a Blueline taxi.

Digi Mondays will always have a special place in our childhood. Nothing quite compares to stumbling into Sixth Form at 8.30am on a Tuesday morning, to then be told that your personal statement is bollocks, your insurance choice rejected you and your eyes are looking a little red. "I'm just very stressed Susan." When in reality, you're still steaming.

But here we are, uni students returning back to Geordie land every chance we get and what do we find? Digi Mondays have gone to shit.

You queue at 10.30pm to get on the 80p guest list, risk hypothermia and then end up paying more anyways

Pres last for all of one hour so you end up downing your Echo Falls White Zinfandel in the taxi – and if you're a true Geordie, you'll defo have a party taxi. You're stood in the queue in your latest jeans and a slutty bodysuit combo without a grotty jumper, because apparently that's not acceptable in Newcastle?! So you're numb, like hypothermia level cold, you've ran out of alcohol and there's a man offering you queue jump aka warmth, for a fiver.

But your real Northern friend – like the one who actually still lives in Newcastle and genuinely doesn't get cold – is shouting at you to get 80p entry. So you wave goodbye to the warmth man and stick it out, only to find the entry has gone up anyways by the time you get past the chatty bouncers.

You may as well go to a Sixth Form party

You're at the bar with four K2s in hand because VKs are too classy for Digi. You turn around and see the mean girls from high school, the nerdy lads that are suddenly tall, buff – yep, defo gonna have a cheeky smooch with him tonight – and finally, your little sister and her mates.

Being suffocated by smoke machines and then hit in the face by an overgrown fresher

You're screaming Mr Brightside with all your pals so vigorously sweat is running down your forehead and then, boom. A massive, future rugby lad accidentally hits you in the face, but you continue to sing because The Killers will not be defeated by an overachieving fresher home for the weekend.

Two minutes later, your friend starts complaining that she's thirsty, but oh wait, you can't actually see her because the smoke machines are so aggressive you may as well as be dancing with a bunch of strangers.

You escape to the toilets to debrief on the traumatic events so far, only to realise it's wayy worse than you thought and everyone is crying

You thought some fresh air would make you feel less nauseous – yeah, in Digi the fresh air is in the toilets. Instead, you find one mate has dropped their phone in the toilet and the other is crying on the floor of Digi over fuck boy #56 so you sit on the floor and comfort her as she wails, "he was the love of my life" for the hundredth time. It's official, your best mate just popped her 'crying on the floor of Digi' cherry. Congrats!

Why are you still holding it…

When you've both emerged from the cubicle, she needs a little touching up to go get that rebound shag.

You use a spritz of hairspray and suddenly you're paying the Digi toilet lady £1 for every spritz

Gals, can we just have a moment for the Digi toilet lady? She's so mean, she never pities us when we're crying over…well, literally anything… and yet, for some reason we always think the perfume next to the door is free. Hmm.

WARNING: It's a trap. The deodorant is not free.

You move up to the indie floor and avoid the sex sofas

This floor is filled with those indie, Manchester uni lads dancing to Jamie T and Franz Ferdinand in their vintage shirts and girls skinny jeans. It's like you're back at uni, only not. Because when you turn around there are soem baby 18 year olds ordering orange K2s and dry humping on the sofas in the corner. Remember your old Sixth Form parties? Yeah, we're right back there. Oooh, maybe one of them will lose their virginity this time.

It's 3am, time for food – oh wait, there's only one takeaway.

At uni, there are many different takeaways with many different types of food. Outside of Newcastle's most popular club? Flame N Grill, aka the worst take away ever.

No Crispy's chips, no Flames chicken, no Milano pizza. What's the point in a night out if you can't enjoy some greasy pizza at the end of it?