Thursdays at Lloyd’s Stourbridge is what defined your college years

Never enough Pitbull


You’d race out of college, having spent your free up Merry Hill trying to find a new top/dress/necklace for the night you’ve waited all week for: Lloyd’s Thursdays.

Everyone was out on Thursday, whether they wanted to be or not. Week in, week out, you’d rotate whose house you were going to get ready at but one thing was always for certain; you’d meet at Chequers for a pitcher or two at 9pm, and by 11 you were queuing in the cold for Lloyd’s. You daren’t miss a week because you knew you’d spend Friday – and the rest of the weekend – regretting it, desperately trying to catch up. Who got with whose little sister? Who threw up in the toilets? Who was blubbering in the smoking area? You’d down Jägerbombs and watch the drama unfold. That was the beauty of Lloyd’s: everyone was there, so it was just explosion after explosion as boyfriends cheated on girlfriends and best mates fell out over the tiniest things.

The night hadn’t begun until you’d had at least two of these in Chequers

Afrojack would be blurting out of the speakers and you’d grab your mates and say “classic Lloyd’s tune”. Ne-Yo, Pitbull, David Guetta – whenever you heard their music, whether it was midday on the radio or Monday morning on your iPod, your instinct was always to associate it with Lloyd’s. Everyone would be dancing in circles, fist pumps going strong, generic wooping going even stronger.

Occasionally, girls would race up the stairs to the toilets. You’d burst in with your clique; a girl in the year below would be crying her eyes out on the sofa, while someone she didn’t even know threw her arm around and passed her vodka coke to finish. Another group would be taking toilet selfies in the beaut full length mirrors and you’d get extracts of conversations from girls chattering away, four to a cubicle. You’d ask to borrow someone’s lippy and next thing you were best friends.

Anyone who was anyone would be in Lloyd’s

A night at Lloyd’s would never, ever drag. The lights came on only leaving you wanting more, counting down the days until next week. The toss up between grabbing a cheeky kebab from Olivio’s and letting everyone see what a sweaty horrible mess you’d become was a dilemma you had to face up to. Of course, a kebab to ease the walk home would always win.

Sadly, today’s college students can’t appreciate Lloyd’s at its peak. Now, it’s all about Chicago’s, which isn’t winning in The Tab’s quest to find the most tragic hometown club, the results of which are being announced on Sunday.