Everything that will ever happen to you in Jesters

The next instalment in the Soton Tab’s all-encompassing guide to Southampton’s clubs, taking on our infamous Jesters.

You’re in the queue outside. It’s freezing cold and you’re starting to sober up, making this seem like the worst decision ever. You’ve already queued for 30 minutes and won’t admit defeat, you stick it out and tell yourself it will be worth it.

You’re in the queue outside. Someone suggested going into Clowns for a drink to get one of those queue jump cards. The barman says they’ve run out of them, you question whether or not they existed in the first place and sip a double in order to maintain a solid level of tipsy.

You’re at the bar. ‘Jesticle?’ asks your oddly enthusiastic friend. ‘Sure’ you say, gritting your teeth and wondering if people will notice you pouring half of it away on someone’s shoes.

You’re at the bar. You’re at a level of drunkenness where a Jesticle doesn’t seem like a terrible idea. The sickening sweetness balances out the self-loathing, and you dive back into the night.

Leaning tower of pee-sa?

Your friend challenges you to a jesticle downing contest. You oblige because you’re an absolute savage, getting mad respect from the lads despite the fact that you spilled half of it down your Jack Wills polo. ‘Jesters is top bant’, you tell yourself.

You’re in Jesters on a Monday, and you order two snakebites. ‘£1.20 please’ says the barman. £1.20?? Is this legal? Is this safe? Who cares, you just saw someone chundering on the dancefloor and need all the help you can get.

You’re in Jesters on a Monday, and you order two snakebites. ‘£1.20 please’ says the barman. You recall the good old days when they were only 50p each. And what about Freddos, when did that little chocolate prick get so expensive? Damn the British economy, taking away all we hold dear. You pay the extra 20p, cursing George Osborne under your breath.

You order a Juicy Lucy or a mango jesticle instead of a standard jesticle, much to the disapproval of your friends even though they taste better.

You brave the toilets. Foolishly you don’t pay attention to your surroundings and wade straight through the ocean of piss in the middle, forcing you to spend the rest of the night with a damp, urine-scented shoe.

You brave the toilets. The piss pyramid is under construction in the men’s urinal, a tower of cups filled with the night’s pre-drinks and ammonia reaching towards the sky. You make your contribution, praying to God that it doesn’t topple. You survive, and leave to tell your friends how much of a lad you are.

You brave the toilets with your best gal. The twobicle opens up and you seize the opportunity. ‘Is this normal?’ you wonder. Probably not, but oh well, it’s a bonding experience that will only strengthen your friendship.

You’re on the dancefloor. It’s a Monday night, and the place is at full capacity. You try to wiggle your way through the crowd to create some space for shape cutting, but you are unable to penetrate the wall of sweaty, drunken messes. You decide to try again later, retreating to the smokers’ and telling yourself that it’s worth persisting.

You’re on the dancefloor. It’s not too busy and you’re respectably drunk, making this the best 20 minutes of your life. The DJ is dropping absolute bangers like Year 3000 and S Club Party, your dance moves are the envy of Bevois Valley. This is what you were born to do.

You’re on the dancefloor. Like a medieval executioner swinging his axe onto the head of a thief, the DJ decides to kill your evening by dropping Baywatch. As the shirts begin to come off, you look around and take in the gruesome scene unfolding before you. What’s the point of any of this, you wonder. With a weary shake of the head you leave the dancefloor and head back to the bar to drown your sorrows.

You’re on the dancefloor. You’re having a great time, until you see someone pissing in the corner. Then you see another guy pissing in the corner. And another. Really guys?

You’re on the dancefloor.  You’re slightly hammered, and a 4/10 slithers your way. ‘Is this a terrible idea?’ you ask yourself. You know it is. Your friends know it is. With a sigh you go in for a regret-filled, jesticle flavoured kiss. You just hope none of your friends are lurking with a camera.

You’re on the dancefloor. Someone’s getting a sly handy, and you can’t decide whether to judge them or worship them as a king. You settle for a baffled shrug and return to your jesticle.

You’ve brought your friend from home to Jesters. You insisted that it ‘Isn’t that bad’ and advised them to bring a pair of cheap shoes, but the horror in their eyes is clear. After a few unsuccessful attempts to dance and a couple of traumatic toilet trips, you leave wondering how badly you’ve scarred them.