I went to Level sober
It was different to say the least
Last Wednesday, I did the unimaginable.
After Googling the side effects of drinking on my antibiotics (apparently I’d die), I decided to brave Level without a drop of alcohol in my system.
I got to pres and was feeling positive, which lasted all of 10 minutes before the resident DJ jumped on the aux cable decks. He spent the first hour critiquing Justin Bieber’s new album and the second telling me why he thought soundcloud was the “future”.
The playlist ranged from Fetty Wap to Westlife, as he continued to drop banger after banger, and I started to regret my decision more and more. Think your year six disco meets McCooley’s on a Saturday night. C’est la fucking vie.
The walk to Concert Square was as cold and painful as expected. I tried, and failed, to negotiate the cobbles with my heels, while attempting to stop my drunken friends from face planting the floor.
Apparently I was automatically the designated carer? I definitely didn’t sign up for this.
The queue was an uncomfortable experience and felt like it was never going to end, but we were in and ready to slut drop our way to happiness. A strange thing happens when people enter Level – they forget how to stand upright.
With drinks being spilt left, right and centre and my shoes ruined, I was quickly starting to doubt if I’d last much longer. Or, like Cinderella, would I be calling a Delta before the clock struck midnight? Only this wasn’t a fairytale, it was very much my bleak reality.
After watching people shuffle for what felt like years, there was only one place I wanted to be: the toilet. Usually, the girls’ toilets are a safe haven – a place of sanctuary and newfound friendships.
This, and toilet attendants who have an incredible selection of beauty products on offer. From strawberry-scented lip gloss to Britney Spears 2007 perfume, I always thought of them as the real heroes of a night out. But it is only when completely sober you see this for what it really is: £3 for a single spray of deodorant? Disgusting.
By this point, I’m over “House Every Weekend” and I’m starting to think about more important and exciting things, like sleep. But it’s 2am and by no means an acceptable time to leave – I’ve paid a fiver for this, I will not be beaten.
We made our way to the second floor, which has transformed into some kind of underground grime night that I’d expect to find in South London. The polo society are channeling their inner roadman, while the girls around me in sunglasses attempt to spit “bars”. In the words of Skepta himself… that’s not me.
Two agonising hours and a few Diet Cokes later it was time to admit defeat. Stumbling through the smoking area, I dragged my unforgiving friends to the nearest takeaway. Undoubtedly this was the highlight of the night as I found solace in cheese, chips and gravy.
Level sober was an experience – and one I’m glad is over.