I went to six Warwick nights in a row

It was horrible


I don’t want to do this. My liver doesn’t want me to do this. And my bank account most certainly doesn’t want me to do this.

I can safely say that partying has accounted for a lot of my university experience. Some would say the whole of my experience, but don’t listen to them.

If you’re ever missing me, fear not. You can always find me throwing some crazy shapes in the downstairs of Smack or chugging down a purple in the closest circle I could find at Pop. Many a time I have been approached with the question whether I go out every night of the week, and please believe me, I do not.

But after being asked this question so many times, an idea began to sprout in my mind. Could it be possible?

If Phileas Fogg could get around the world in 80 days, surely I could get around the darkest clubs in the West Midlands in seven?

So if you’ve ever wondered how it feels to suffer through a seven day hangover, look no further. This is my gift to you.

Day 1: Kasbah

It begins. Tonight I shall begin my mission. Venturing to the one redeeming feature of Coventry, the one and only Kasbah.

If you haven’t attended Monday’s weekly Bubbleluv event yet, where have you been? Sure you might be on track for a first, but you will never understand the epicness of the Kasbah smoking area, which just so happens to include a burger bar. Only in Coventry.

The night is all good and fun, I completely forget I have yet to complete my 9am seminar work, but that’s okay, because the DJ just played Justin Bieber’s ‘Sorry’ followed by ‘Love Yourself’.

Heading back to Leamington in an overpriced taxi at 4am, I am optimistic. This week is going to be fine. Why haven’t I been doing this my whole university life?

And so it begins..

Day 2: Smack

Welcome to hangover hell. Plus, there’s always that extra sweetness when it’s a hangover from Kasbah, because you can be assured there’ll be plenty horrendous drunk pictures of you hitting the internet in no time at all.

The 9am seminar is mental torture. Somehow, my ill rested mind just can’t engage with intense discussions revolving around the Indian Penal Code.

But it’s all okay. Warwick’s strategically placed couches in the Learning Grid mean I can sneakily nap while it just looks like I’ve got my head in my hands in despair like all the other students around me.

Tonight its Smack’s turn. An old fave, I’m actually looking forward to it.

My rested state means I can even take on the queue, which somehow always manages to bring out the WWE wrestler ambitions of university students.

It’s a good night, it always is when Dave Ramsay’s on the decks. Plus I’m assured that I must be sweating off some of those Jaeger bombs in the sauna that is downstairs Smack.

Arriving home at 3am, I am completely optimistic I can make my 10am Contract Law lecture. Hey, if Moses managed to separate the sea, I can manage to separate myself from my mattress in 5 hours.

Edited out the bags under my eyes

Day 3: Pop

I missed my Contract Law lecture. Waking up in a blur at one in the afternoon I wonder if it is all worth it. I do love The Tab (who doesn’t?) but I doubt it will serve as a very good excuse when I’m trying to plead why I shouldn’t be kicked out of university next year.

Dragging myself onto a U1 at a shameful hour, I don’t even want to think about Pop.

If you haven’t heard about Pop, you must have been living under a rock. Or not living at all, because I’m pretty sure even under a rock you’d be able to hear the masterpiece which is Disco Dave’s DJ-ing.

While I’m usually the first one up for spending 3 hours sitting in a circle in fancy dress being bellowed at to drink before losing all my inhibitions on a dance floor that boasts the worst of the 90s music scene; today there’s nothing I’d like to do less. I have to keep sneaking off to the toilet in the middle of circle to try and have 40 winks while the girl in the cubicle next to me sounds likes she’s puking up 40 litres.

By 10pm even Bewitched and Take That can’t lift my mood. Shame faced, I sneak out. Travelling on the U1 dressed as Buffy the Vampire Slayer wouldn’t get me a single weird look at 2am, but at 10pm I’m the focus of attention, and most probably pity.

At least I met George Creasy

Day 4: Clink

After the purple infused massacre that is Pop, it’s time to get more classy. Ladies and gents, let me introduce you to Clink. You ever wonder why all those hot international students which you spend all day gawking at on campus are never in Smack on a Thursday? It’s because they’re living the high life at Clink. The underground haven is the closest you’re going to get to finding a respectable club in Leamington. It’s the sort of place where you don’t get given a weird look by the bouncer showing up in a dress and heels.

Although I look like shit and I feel like I could barf at any moment, I take comfort in the fact that I am in a place where the walls aren’t sticky and the toilets are unblocked.

And then I meet my good old friend Tequila. Always there to pick me up, it works a little too well and at half four in the morning I find myself somehow stumbling out of Smack, broken heels in hand. So much for classy, Connie.

Drunk Connie or a thumb?

Day 5: Neon

I don’t want to do this. My liver doesn’t want me to do this. And my bank account most certainly doesn’t want me to do this. But here it is, every week Friday rolls around and so does the atrocity that is Neon. Can’t deny that being handed over my Q-Jump feels a bit like being handed over my death certificate. Hey, at least I can call myself a real Jaegermeister.

Neon is one of those places where you’re only going to have a good night out if you’re completely fucked. Otherwise, you spend it wandering around the three rooms, having lost your friends and nursing 50 bruises from the mosh pit that never fails to disappoint in the main room.

But every week it never fails to draw us all in. I mean, who doesn’t want to spend the beginning of their weekend under the colourful glow of an illuminated ‘you make my cock hard’ sign?

At half past 12 I’m done. It’s so early that Vialli’s is even empty. But I don’t care, Avicci and David Guetta have nothing on my bed.

Trying to get oxygen in the mosh pit

Day 6: Law Ball

It takes a certain type of stupid person to arrange this week as the same one as your Law Ball. I, Connie Howley, am that person.

After five days of drinking I can hardly fit into my dress. Hence the strategic coat in all the photos.

This ball cost me £50, and thought of the photo booth makes me want to cry whilst the chicken makes me want to puke.

The worst thing is I can’t even escape. The Hilton Hotel in Birmingham is lovely, but according to google it’s a good £50 cab fare away from home.

Five hours of balling later I want to ball my eyes out.

Coat vs bloat

Day 7

*Dead*