Pryzm is the worst night out ever
Stop lying to yourselves, this is how it always turns out
It’s a Wednesday night and, after downing your predrinks and finally getting everyone to clamber into the taxi, you arrive at Pryzm. You get into the queue and are put behind a group of rowdy lads from a sports social who all think they are hilarious because they have dressed up in fluorescent tutus and 80s headbands & leg warmers. Original. Great start.
After finally getting to the front of the queue after having to hand over four quid – which is what you will soon understand to be the most wasted four quid you will ever spend – you then realise that, because it is mid Feb, you have your massive duffle coat with you so you’ve got to hand it in to the cloakroom. But oh wait, the cloakroom queue is fucking huge. You’ve got to decide: should you haul around your massive coat with you for the rest of the evening or waste another 20 minutes to hand it in. Of course, you choose the latter because, let’s face it, any night is gonna be ruined if your sick dance moves are destroyed by a hefty great coat hanging from your arm.
So proceeding into the club – two quid down and almost completely sober by now – you arrive in the cheesy disco room. This room is definitely the worst. Not only does it give you sickening reminders of the shitty school discos you attended in primary school, but you are also met with sweaty, letchy lads who attempt to grind on you whilst you’re already trying to force yourself to enjoy dancing to S-Club. You ask yourself why you’re here.
In desperate need of a jagerbomb, in hope to make the night a little better, you and your crew head to the next room. You’ve just realised that your mate Gemma had been too busy necking on with that hot rugby player in the last room that she didn’t notice you leave. It’s alright though, cos two of your other mates say they’ll go find her, “just stay right here!”
So now it’s just you and a couple others, but it’s okay cos you’re a little tipsy now and Sorry has just come on. So you bust ya moves and wait for your mates to return but, of course, they don’t. It’s alright though, cos you all brought your phones out so you’ll just give ‘em a text: In club room, where u?
However, you’ve completely forgotten that you get no fucking signal downstairs so decide to head upstairs in attempt to send the text. Your mate Gemma replies and says she’s in the toilets with your other mate who’s just had a drunken call with her ex and is now sobbing about it in the loos. So you head to the toilets in desperate hope to comfort your friend and tell her to ‘forget about him, he’s a knobhead!’ And then you remember. Unlike most normal clubs, the toilets are situated in about five different places. Brilliant. So you run to each one, shouting their names in frantic hope to find them. But you don’t.
You’ve had enough, three friends down and you’re almost out of dollar now because – for a student night – the drinks here are pretty dear. You head for a smoke because, currently, the only thing that might make this night slightly bearable is getting a nicotine fix. However, as soon as you get out the door, it dawns on you that where this smoking area is situated. Right on the fucking seafront. That’s it. The final straw. Your hair and makeup fucking ruined and can’t even manage to keep your friggin cig alight.
So why is it that we keep going?
If you’re not chasing around a lost mate all night then you’re trying to enjoy dancing to the shittest music in the world. Not to mention, you are surrounded by the most irritating sport societies wearing the most unimaginative fancy-dress possible.
Let’s stop pretending that it’s the club we love to hate and realise that we simply just hate it.