What your favourite night out says about you
I bet this all sounds familiar
The state of your bedroom, your preferred sandwich filling, your internet search history. These are just some of the things that can often shed light on what type of guy or gal you really are.
Where you like to spend your Liverpool nights out is no different.
24 Kitchen Street
You’re the one at the bar rolling your 52nd cigarette waiting for your girlfriend who has had so many undercuts she’s practically bald.
You’re barely visible in that muted tones clothing, as artfully distressed as the interior of Kitchen Street.
Today has been a day of contemplation for you: are tattoos too mainstream now? Can you forfeit buying your mother a birthday present so you can afford some cocaine? Do you look like you couldn’t give a shit enough about your degree but care enough about the planet and that?
As your girlfriend clomps back over, flatform Doc Martins making more sound than the heady beats of the House music, you shiver in pleasure when a stranger asks what the hell a Dark and Stormy is. It gives you thrills when you’re so unique the bartender doesn’t know your drink.
It’s surprising they don’t have a medics-only policy on The Raz doors because 98 per cent of the mile long queue on a Monday is made up of wanna-be doctors.
Rumour has it they’ve been partying harder than usual (probably burning the stress of the Medic Society scandal off) but let’s face it, if you haven’t been to the Raz and you’re a medic, your social life has failed.
Hierarchy is key: it’s said that the medic top dogs are allowed to queue jump. Behind them are the desperate freshers hoping to make the cut, by any means possible, even if injuries are involved (which they usually are when Fat Frogs are drank).
Anyone non-medic is out of place. The hot, sweaty basement is a breeding zone for medic-on-medic action, their brains working hard to find the latin name of every body part touched. It’s like a sex game, but weird and medical.
Level / Levels
Expensive, voluminous and glossy, Level(s) perfectly mimics the hair of its regulars.
If you’re a Level-goer, you’re a pony-tailed Southern girl whose gone against every instinct in venturing North of Watford. Plus, as you tell your friends who never visit, you wanted a “realistic university experience”. And because you didn’t get the grades for Bristol/Bath/Exeter/Cardiff.
Levels is a haven of luxury in what you see as the gritty Northern world, with fit bartenders and prices that match the South. When you’re laughed at for saying Bath funny and seen as odd because you didn’t come from an area of Yorkshire, Level(s) feels like Surrey-Up-North.
As you flirt past the bouncers (but pay the grumpy women at the desks), you start to regret the decision to bring the Michael Kors tote out and your longing for glasses of wine in a local gastro pub intensifies.
Putting on a brave face you push your way in, thinking of the street credit you’ll earn back in Witley (“It’s in Surrey darling, surely you’ve heard of it?”) when you return victorious, alive and freezing from the North.
Half the people on a Tuesday are there because there’s no where else to go and the other half obviously just pretend to like the music so that their crush might acknowledge their existence – like some twisted Mean Girls plot but with ripped jeans and a little too much eye liner.
There’s a tonne of boys in marl t-shirts and an even greater number of girls with too much eyeshadow on (If you don’t believe me, look at the club photos).
Sitting on its own away from concert square, Bumper is the ugly sister of the Fleet Street siblings, filled with people who have no idea why they are there in the first place.
Krazy House is reserved for those who are mashed, smashed or darn right weird.
Every Liverpool fresher has ventured there in the uncertain times of Week 0, only to never return having found it’s strange zoo mixed with a prison-that’s-flooded interior mentally scarring.
Those plastered enough enjoy the excitement of a stray gorilla found nestled in a corner, or mounting a rhino to pass the night. But, put it this way, if Krazy House is your favourite night out, you should be worried.
Medication lovers all secretly want to be Med Girls.
They pre-drink with their pack: a swarm of girls dressed in the uniform of a cropped top and a black skirt, yellow wristbands at the ready. Mixers are shared with only mild annoyance, vodka measurements getting increasingly larger.
Selfies are a must, throughout the night. As the Russian medicine works its way into their limbs, the Taylor Swift gets louder and the the calls for Let It Go more shrill.
They climax as the pack hits the final, heart-wrenching, pack-building line of “the cold never bothered me anyway”.
And then the door opens and the puritan of the floor tells them to shut up and leave. Serious case of bathos babes. The bus is mounted and the sweaty mess of Mediation awaits.
Who hasn’t thought the Ça va chilli flavoured delight was a good idea on a cold, rainy night out? There isn’t really a stereotypical Ça va goer: everyone is there to start the night. The little devil shots are the number one cause of sleeping-with-the-boy-downstairs-who-you-have-to-see-everyday dilemmas.
One pot of liquid magic, turns to two and then to three, the sour lemon burning away the memories of the last time you made this very same mistake. Everyone’s been there, haven’t they? (Please tell me they have.)
The tequila shot drinker is out to party, dressed to impress, but their outfit won’t make it past 1am. Instead, they’ll be on their way home to Carnatic with their ‘new friend’, trying in their blurred mind to work out the logistics of sex in a bed smaller than the infamous titanic slab of wood which couldn’t save Leo Di Caprio.