Everything that has and will ever happen at Crisis
BCL will be warm
- Some guy in beige chinos is threatening to take a piss in the queue, another man in beige chinos threatens to knock him out if he does, the two become confrontational and you scan desperately for escape routes and wonder if it would be cowardly to call a bouncer over.
- You realise you’re the only person in the queue not wearing beige chinos.
- You’ve been in the queue for an hour now and are questioning the decision to go this evening, you’ve never had a good night in Crisis and you probably never will. Is this some desperate attempt to prove to yourself that you can still pull after recently breaking up with your long-term bae? Almost certainly. They were your everything and your life is empty without them, you contemplate whether you’ll ever do better and realise if you are it certainly won’t be in Rock City on a dreary Wednesday night in October
- You’re completely sober.
- The bouncer takes your half-empty can of Carlsberg and tips it away in front of you. He holds your gaze, staring deep into your soul as he pours the tepid, lager down the drain. Pure, unbridled joy is written all over his face, daring you to question his lack of authority; lack of reason; lack of humanity . You say nothing.
- Two guys with the middle of their heads shaved are fighting over a girl with backcombed hair.
- A girl is sitting on the entrance steps, mascara streams down her flushed cheeks as impatient friends try half-heartedly to convince her that Hugh just wasn’t right for her anyway.
- Hugh is pulling a girl dressed as Where’s Wally.
- Someone in the Men’s toilets has struck up the national anthem.
- No one joins him and the bold pioneer slowly fades out on the second line. Softly under his breath the instigator sings “God save ourrr queeeen”, whilst shedding a single tear.
- The men’s room erupts to the cry of “SEND HER VICTORIOUS”, the jubilant pioneer sways from side to side with his adjacent, pissing patriots; the moment is beautiful and one that will remain in the hearts of everyone involved for the entire evening.
- Is that England cricketer Joe Root? There’s no fucking way thats Joe fucking Root. It is! Its fucking Joe Root in Crisis!!!
You lose about 60 per cent of the fluid in your body sweating in BCL.
- You’ve lost your friends, you stand, bereft, on the Crisis balcony gazing hopelessly into the surging crowd of endless faces. Defeated, you focus on certain strangers in the crowd and wonder upon the vivid complexity of all the different lives around you. You marvel at the fact that each person is experiencing an equally intricate existence as your own with emotions, relationships and experiences, all unconditionally alike yet emphatically different. You leave to buy McDonalds alone.
- Someone is pissing in the back corner of the balcony.
- The DJ tells everyone to ‘JUMP, JUMP, JUMP!!’ and to your utter disbelief, everyone does.
- You are in the smoking area and three people have asked if you have a cigarette. Yes is the answer but you hand not a single one out. You wonder to yourself why on Earth it’s acceptable to assume that if a complete stranger has a cigarette, they should automatically give you one. Seriously what the fuck is wrong with people?! In what other situation would you go up and ask someone if they ‘had’ something and if they replied ‘yes’- take one? “Hi mate do you have a Mars bar?”, “Yes”, “Oh, can I have it?”, “No of course you fucking can’t, I don’t know you and it’s mine.” Christ.
- You’ve have handed out at least 13 cigarettes and everybody wants to be your friend.
- ‘Mr. Brightside’ comes on and you realise that Crisis is just a less self-deprecating Ocean and everyone here is a jerk.
- The DJ is telling you to jump again.
- You and your mates are on it, you’ve consumed an entire box of Country Manor and you’re smashed and so are they, you own the dance floor and everyone else is in awe of vicious shapes you’re cutting, the DJ is feeding off your energy and drops banger after banger, orchestrating the crowd into a frenzy, Crisis is the best night ever.
- You had no time to get drunk because of course you didn’t. What self-respecting nightclub could possibly force their clientele to arrive before 10:30? In a desperate attempt to get smashed you’ve spent a small fortune on Jagerbombs and spilt the majority of them down your shirt. You are sticky, sweaty, unhappy and you are never, ever going to Crisis again… apart from the All-Frighter maybe.