I took my mum and auntie clubbing to Plush and they absolutely loved it

Have you ever been to Plush and thought, you know what would make this night a thousand times better: my mum being here?

Neither had I, until last week when a perfectly normal family visit took a turn for the unexpected and quite frankly chaotic.

Allow me to set the scene: it’s fifth week, your mother and auntie have come to visit you in Oxford and take you out to dinner, and you’re currently sat in the Ivy having an innocent plate of spaghetti and some wine. 

The conversation is flowing and at 9pm, when you’ve finished your meal, you’re not quite ready to end the night, so you pop across to the nearest place for a nightcap. 

With the lovely live piano and deliciously strong cocktails at Sandy’s, it did not take long before I realised that, if I was going to take these two back to their hotel, I might need a hand for the walk.

So, I called two of my friends to come and help me get them home. 

An hour and a half later and Mum and Auntie Mand had bought several shots, all of us, including my friends, were far from sober, and the piano man had just upped the ante and was now belting out Crocodile Rock.

He had reached the end of his set by 11:30, and we took off down High Street, towards Cornmarket Street, walking them to their accommodation. 

Except that we didn’t get there.

Instead we blagged our way into Plush, and were given light refraction rave glasses before being ushered over towards the bar where we were offered various different concoctions (three Jaeger bombs for a fiver!?).

The queue outside on this particular night, naturally, had more of my friends from random colleges than I have ever seen around Oxford on any other night, and it was surreal explaining to so many people I saw that these are my friends Matt and Jocasta – oh and my mother Kate and Auntie Mand.

That night at Plush there was some sort of string group playing, but the slightly more sombre tones of the music did not dull the fun, and we danced on the very same spot that I met my friends the first night of Freshers’ Week. 

When we first got onto the main floor, my mum disbelievingly cried to my auntie, “Is this what they’re calling music nowadays?”, before they giggled off into the crowd to dance.

They brought in countless rounds of tequila and lime, and showed enduring stamina as the jaeger bombs started falling thick and fast.

In all honesty, the entertainment and commitment my mother and auntie brought put many of the people in college to shame. Not only because of their sustained drinking and sense of fun, but also because they had lasted over nine hours in heels. 

This skill is, according to my mother, because “as you get older you just get more practice at learning how to have fun. You university people will improve – don’t worry, darling.”

We ended the night with more cocktails and, in true Oxford style, a kebab on the way back, with all of us laughing in disbelief. None were in as much disbelief as the concierge of the hotel, who received the shock of his life when our party of five stumbled in, asking which room number their key was for. 

The next morning I met them in Pret, nursing their second coffee but with spritely faces and many smiles, game for mimosas with lunch if the journey home did not inhibit it.

According to Matt, one of my two friends who accompanied us, it was “the best night out in Oxford” he has ever had. Maybe we will try the Bully next time.

Who would have thought?

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