Everything that will happen to you at Shabang
You know it’s over when Wonderwall comes on
It’s your favourite night of the week again, and you and your flatmates have probably convinced yourself (like every week) that you’re going to have a “quiet one”.
Nevertheless, the hair straightening commences at 10:30pm, the boob-tube that makes your boobs look a solid 10 is looking a little lonely in your wardrobe, and those leftover mixers from Wednesday’s Letsdisko aren’t going to drink themselves.
Here’s a comprehensive list of what you’re getting yourself into.
The time has come. Texts begin rolling in: ‘Who’s house we smashing tonight?’, ‘Who’s drinking what?’, ‘Slutty or casual?’. You finally reach that glistening house in Clarendon late, so taxis are arriving in 45 mins. It’s time to bang out a bit of never have I ever and attempt to protect your dignity.
After going 50/50 with mixer and generous amounts of the vodka, hoping that being off-your-face will make VKs taste like tropical Sauvignon Blancs, you begin the voyage of shambles to the O2 – hugging your friend crop-top Tiff for warmth, because freezing is the price you pay to look good.
Scrounging through your purse to pay the taxi fare, you’ll discover that your GCSE maths probably isn’t enough to make you trustworthy with money. Nevertheless, you excitedly stumble up that never ending hill towards the golden gates that are the O2.
Faced with a queue to rival a 1D concert, you pretend to give a shit about whatever course the person in front of you is studying – securing pole position in the queue is top priority.
The fluorescent jacket wearers usher you in, and you begin to talk tactics with your squad: “Piss, bar, R&B?”
The stairs, and a guaranteed bruised arse
After you’ve finally made it into club your next challenge are those pesky stairs. Holding on for dear life is something you pursue quite literally, otherwise your drunken arse finds itself nailed to the floor. You’ll power through anyway. It’s not embarrassing, just another bant day, another bant story and bant bruise to talk about.
The R&B room
When its time to make your way upstairs to the R&B room, previous experiences hearken wise words of warning: “Never venture too far from your friends.” But you do. Without fail. Every. Bloody. Week.
In fact you should probably just keep your eyes closed now, because eyeing up the bar gives that keen weekly Shabang! goer wearing the snapback a window of opportunity to slowly shuffle towards you, serenading you by lip syncing to Candy Shop.
He’s now your mate for the night, and you better just accept that he’ll be behind you in every photo.
The best, and arguably the worst, thing about the Shabang! photos is that you won’t know whether you’ll feature in them until you’re curled up on the sofa, brain dying, and crop-top Tiff informs you that “you looked wasted” last night, asking “who’s the guy?”
But let’s face it, without the photographer you wouldn’t be able to piece together that blur of a night.
And without them, how will your friends know how much of an Edward VK-hand baller you are?
The smoking area
When the heat of the main room gets too much, you move on to the smoking area, so you can actually hear your conversations with people. As you sit there having a relaxed cig with your friends, discussing boys and your next drink choice, a fresher ruins the vibe by shoving a pound in your face begging for a fag in return. Leave, please.
The sweet taste of a greasy Food Factory
The night is drawing to an end – you can tell because they’ve just played Wonderwall.
The biggest question you’ll find yourself asking every Friday, and probably over the whole three years, is whether or not that crumpled £10 note in your purse would be better spent on a taxi home or a Food Factory.
Luckily, it’s probably the easiest answer. The queue calls your name and those greasy chips and burgers cry to come home and bed you – perhaps nurse you through that rank hangover, if you’re lucky enough to fall asleep halfway into them. Any chances of last-minute pulling completely fly out the window as the garlic mayo touches your lips. But let’s be honest – it’s so worth it.
Until next week, then.