What your choice of pre-drink says about you
Who is still drinking Lambrini?
Vodka and mixer
Unfortunately you’re just a little bit grey. You’ll sit by the speakers, and end up having awkward small talk with someone you know vaguely from your course. Every pre is the same for you, and it’s not as if you have a bad time, it’s just you’ve never had a good time to compare it to. You once googled “what do people drink at pre-drinks”, and from then on you’ve remained unwaveringly loyal to your destiny of standard mediocrity. Change scares you, and you know at graduation you’ll still be sipping away at the devil’s water.
You’ve got money to burn but you don’t care, because it ain’t a party without you. Well, you care once you check your bank balance at the end of the week. No doubt it’s all just a ploy to hide your own crippling self-confidence issues, but no one cares as you pass round the bottle like a powerful matriarch feeding her offspring. Fair play to you though, everyone does end up relying on you to bring the atmosphere.
Your problems oscillate between wondering if you’ve made the polo team this week, and whether anyone will notice it’s actually daddy’s name on your American Express. You’re inevitably insanely fit, and your mum’s an absolute milf. You smoke cigarillos exclusively, and definitely study History of Art. For such a wealthy student, you manage to get a disproportionate amount of free drinks off everyone else during pres.
Cheap lager (Fosters, Carling etc.)
You’re an honest, decent, down-to-earth kind of person…when you’re sober. The cheap lager brings out the worst in you, and after a few tinnies you’ve turned into a Football Factory extra. Unfortunately, you rate yourself as a bit of a Pavarotti, and have no fear in letting everyone know by 11:30, despite how much everyone tells you to fuck off.
For a special night you’ll treat yourself to a Frosty Jacks, but you’ve never made it out of the pres, inevitably finding yourself slumped on the stairs the next morning with a hangover from hell. But everyone loves you, because you haven’t missed a pre yet.
You post inspirational quotes on Facebook non-ironically. You watch TOWIE non-ironically. In fact, irony as a concept is lost on you, hence you’re drinking a drink that to anyone else reminds them of their dodgy uncle’s wedding reception. There’s something beautifully clueless about you which is kind of charming: your belief that you’re sophisticated because you’re drinking out of a wine glass is universally accepted because no one has the heart to tell you otherwise.
You and the Cava lot have an affinity which often sees you together at the end of night in a drunken mess having a heart to heart. You’re no doubt a light-weight, but you thought you’d be alright with three bottles and now you’re yet again chunning in the sink before 11.
Premium bottled lagers (Bud, San Miguel etc.)
You’ll dutifully watch football with the lads but you can never understand what the fuss is about. Or really what’s going on. Back home in Surrey you’d definitely be wearing a gilet with friends who are invariably all called Hugo or Felicity, but here you’re way too self-conscious to risk an item of apparel so open to ridicule.
Better keep drinking and laughing along to Anchorman impressions, when in reality you were far too busy with school rowing and your extra A-level to watch comedies.
You can’t stay in your shitty satellite town forever, you have to join the cruel real world where Dapper Laughs was never that funny, and where shit Maga tattoos aren’t really that cool. You tell everyone you live in London, but everyone in London knows you definitely don’t. You were born with an inferiority complex, but please, strawpedoing on your own in the corner is just uncomfortable. To be honest, you were only invited you because we know you hate yourself more than we ever could…
You clearly skipped your youth, and just ended up turning into your slouching, bitter father. You won’t shut up about the budget, but that’s because you’re no doubt a Tory and get a sadistic kick out of watching the poor suffer. You were never invited, but consistently manage to weasel in as a plus one, yet no one will admit to inviting you. I mean, whiskey, really?
You’re the classic “oh I’ve got a 9am so I won’t come out”, but c’mon now, you shouldn’t have bothered because you’re struggling to even pretend you’re enjoying yourself. When people keep telling you to drink you just say you’re going to drop tonight, but in reality you’ll be walking home alone and be in bed before midnight.