Admit it: Sometimes the hangover’s worth it.

In a moment of nostalgia I pondered over all the drunken incidents that have made my life that much more enjoyable throughout Uni, and it occurred to me that if my friends and hit Jesters on a Monday and not one of us has a story to tell from it, I am disappointed.

There’s just no excuse for that kind of sombre behaviour. True, we might all remain hangover-free, but where’s the fun in knowing exactly what happened the night before? That’s what Facebook’s for!

And so I got to thinking about the best drunken anecdote from the past year and a half, since central to my friend group is a mutual love of the cheeky Quadvod and the mighty Jesticle.

And then I realised, I don’t have any respectable friends, and I like it that way:

You've all been to Jesters. You all know what this is.

There’s the one who started a fight in the Jester’s toilets over their course presentation, and the one who cooked all the food they owned, then immediately went to bed and forgot about it. There’s (one of my personal favourites) the one who cried at the McDonald’s drive-thru, and then the one who ordered a whiteboard online after Jesters, and was more than confused when it arrived. But we’ve all been there. More or less, whiteboards aside.

And then there are the friends whose stories demand a week or so to get over the humiliation, before you’re allowed to laugh. Like the one who staggered home post-Sobar with a bloody face, unsure if they’d fallen in the ice, or been punched, but either way, woke up broken-nosed in the morning.

Or the one who passed out behind the Sobar marquee on their own birthday, and surfaced at 3am (picture the scene: music off, lights on, club empty) and believed they needed to clean up the entire place before being thrown out. Or, perhaps, the one who woke up inexplicably at the docks. And, finally, we all have them and cherish them for the continual amusement they provide: the one who’s lucky to make it past pre-drinks, and will certainly be (carried) home by midnight.

However, one friend recently out did us all. Maybe the snow caused some disorientation, but realistically we should all blame the vodka.

Either way, having forgotten their keys, they niftily (or so they thought) snuck through the back door of the house, and the stairs proving too much of a challenge after Bedford Place, made a nest on the lounge floor, complete with random blanket. All went smoothly until they woke up to a face licking (and not the good kind. If there is one.)

Yes, it was a dog, and when they sheepishly sat up… yep, confused family, children and all. Wrong house. So awkward.

However, perhaps the festive spirit has sneaked its way into the Portswood locals (Yeah, I know. Dubious. Probably just confused by the snow), but the family actually lent them some warm clothes before sending them on their way!

Anyway, once I’d got over the hilarity of the situation (which is a Iie, I still haven’t. It started all over again when they had to return the clothes), I realised that it’s true what they say, there’s a moral to every story, even an alcohol induced one:

1. Improve your local geography. The docks are further than you think.
2. Always lock your back door – you never know what might await you in the morning
3. Give up saying you’ll never drink again, because before you know it, eating is again cheating and you’re counting the people falling down the stairs in Sobar.