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How a grim night out always unfolds in PRYZM Watford

They call it Grotty Watty for a reason

What used to be Watford's local Oceana became the much less lovable PRYZM back in 2016 and, although Hertfordshire is not particularly known for it's nightlife, finding yourself in PRYZM makes things considerably worse. Like most night clubs, being greeted by the sticky floors and flashing lights is just the start to the tragic night that often unfolds.

The night is doomed from the moment you begin waiting outside the club in the cold for what seems like an eternity, watching Nike trainers getting turned from the vinyl entry doors of PRYZM. You tackle the intimidation of the bouncers with chips on their shoulders, looking down on pretty much any club-goer waiting to enter; making sure your denim step don't come close to the gloss of the sticky floors. At last, your ID is scanned scanned showing the bleached, up-close photo of your 17-year-old self and you eventually make it in. The £6 you borrowed off your mate for entry is coming to fruition.

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You stumble in, due to the 6 inch heels you’ve been wearing since pre drinks, to be greeted by the haze of sweat and smoke machines that feel all too familiar. As you and your friends attempt to dance to the repetitive songs, it’s not long before you feel a 30-something-year-old stranger starting to grind up against you in an attempt to impress you with his thrusting dance moves. After making eyes with your mate from across the dance floor, you see she’s been caught a similar situation as you awkwardly catch eyes with the other 30-something-year-old, who both of you are now trying to dance away from. Classic tragic PRYZM and it's classic tragic punters.

Realising your legs are giving in, you look around for somewhere, anywhere, to sit down. With the only seats in sight being the white leather booths that claim some hierarchy, you head to the smoking area. The small, unauthorative rope tied around the crowd of boys sipping on Grey Goose vodka whilst filming their “mad” night out snapchat somehow doesn’t seem appealing.

After yet another queue, mindlessly complaining about the line to strangers, and just as you think the night cant get anymore tragic, you see the outline of your ex through the clouds of cigarette smoke. After a quick pep-talk from the girls, you all head out of the wooden rooftop smoking area to go back through the maze of the dark, carpeted corridors until you find the disco room.

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Why would you ever leave?

It’s not long before you’re necking back VKs whilst performing some very questionable dance moves to R. Kelly’s Ignition. However, it’s not long until your greeted, once again, by a drunk lad who thinks grinding to Celebration by Kool and The Gang is the way to your heart, which unsurprisingly – it’s not.

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The next stop on this pathetic night is of course the toilets – Jess's £10 Boohoo dress has started to break (shock) and Amy's balling because she didn't actually want to break up with her ex. You emerge, makeup down faces and hair clips holding up your Jess's dress and you decide it’s time to get out of the light-flashing, sweat-seeping grotto and head downstairs. You step out, welcomed with fresh air that makes you feel as though you haven't breathed properly for the last 3 hours and sigh with relief – the night is almost over.

The night ends in the kebab shop around the corner the night – the place that makes enduring a night in PRYZM worth it. Waiting for your taxi home, comforting your sobbing friends as they munch on their chicken nuggets, you come to the same realisation – that PRYZM is truly tragic and, NEVER a good idea.