Tab Tries… Going sober at an East Slope underground r@ve

Don’t drink on a Saturday night at a do even Lindsay Lohan would struggle to party hard enough at, they said. It’s in the name of investigative journalism, they said. It will be fun, they said. I will tell you one thing for free; it wasn’t fun, it didn’t last, and all we’ve established is that I need a new Tab t-shirt. Bully for me.

So let’s talk alcohol. I’m not a massive drinker. I’ve been known to enjoy the odd Rekorderlig, but I am a very long way from listing Tequila as one of my interests on my CV. There are, however, occasions which just need a drink. Parents evening is one. East slope parties are another. No one could endure that level of party without a drink and come out still normal on the other side. So obviously I was straight down to Aldi with my £1.58 to purchase 2 litres of Red Thunder. Belle Johnson; ready for the night (and the blindness which may ensue if you drink that much of anything which costs 79p a litre.)

Red Thunder. Wine best friend. I’m so sorry, did I say wine? I meant my. MY best friend. Who’s thinking about wine? Not me that’s for certains.

Just a quick aside for anyone who’s not aquainted with the type that frequent these ravez. I met a guy called Ben there. He was a very sweet chap. He asked me what I studied, and when I said English and Drama, his exact reply was, “English?! God, that sounds hard. I could never do English. I do American studies.” Cue a series of questions about American Studies, about which he seemed to know a lot, but oddly not anything about my flatmate, who does the exact same modules as him. Monday 11am sees me and said flatmate sitting in our English lecture. She points to ‘Ben’ and says, “That’s Tom. He’s in my English seminar.” BenTom, if you’re reading this, you are an incredibly strange man.

This is not BenTom. This is Tracy. She is a strong independent woman.

Being acutely aware of the risk of friendlessness if anyone realised I was only present because I do whatever I’m told in the name of journalizm, I quickly abandoned my tee on the side (ok, it may slightly have been because I simply don’t have the shoulders to support anything with that neckline.) Exactly 98 seconds later, it had disappeared. I swear that east slope would give the Bermuda triangle a run for its money. So I obviously spent the next hour and a half attempting to steal it back, Johnny English style-ee. Because hashtag fishyolo right? (That may be a possible reason I’m not usually invited to do’s like this. We’re not quite sure yet.)

Having finally been re-united with my baby, it was promptly used to put out a cigarette. Anyone wondering; yes Tab t-shirts are indeed highly flammable. So that was how that one ended.

The night, from there, is vague, and clouded in mystery. Obviously my t-shirt based trauma ranked higher on my list of priorities than seeing out my challenge.

In brief, Tab tried going sober at an east slope party. Tab failed. Tab regrets nothing.

Burrito of pain; the only definitive sign of a truly good night.

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