From Tun to Pryzm: the perfect night out in Kingston

We flock in our hundreds to start the evening in the beautiful Tun. A gabble of students surround the bars, whilst others stand by the windows gazing across the street to the kingdom that is Pryzm.

Midnight strikes and the drinks are slurped and the final tequila is shot. Girls reluctantly break the seal before leaving to join the ever lasting Pryzm queue, but not before taking a photo in the Tun long mirrors which just scream selfie.

The all important photo to show you’re going out

Some don’t make the journey across the road from Tun to Pryzm as alcohol has already got the better of them. Meanwhile, the queue continues to grow full of troopers, staring enviously at those who thought ahead and booked tickets as they walk in effortlessly without waiting one second in the queue.

Drinking as though our lives depend on it in Tun

After the barrage of security at Pryzm, which isn’t dissimilar from an aiport, you’re in. You run to the nearest man with an iPad and give your fake email and change a digit of your number in exchange for that precious free shot token. A mad dash later and you’re getting the shot surprise – Sours? Caramel? Vanilla? Or the dreaded Liquorice?

You then walk up the stairs of fame and look down on the peasants still waiting to enter the kingdom. Left for the cheese room or straight on for main? Left it is.

A necessary photo of pres to show you’re going out

S Club 7 is blaring away, sways of drunks scream the words at the top of their voices with not a care in the world that they know every single word. Cheese is not the place to be until you have reached a certain level of intoxication. Having realised this, you head upstairs to the balcony of the cheese room, and judge everyone below you. The loved up couple who didn’t know each other five minutes ago but now know each and every inch of the other one’s face, and the boys desperately trying to chirpse every girl in sight – the joys of the Pryzm clan.

I literally know one person here

Then it’s time for the main room, but not before a quick photo with a bunch of strangers in the photo booth. Joining the swarms of people crammed on to the floor, you squeeze your way through, clutching the girl’s hand in front of you like your life depends on it and apologise to everyone who’s foot you step on.

After twenty minutes of main you decide enough is enough and head to the safe haven that is Dallas Chicken, where you’re greeted by the familiar smell of oil, fat and grease. It’s well and truly home time.