In defence of pre-drinks

It’s even possible to pull

Night life at uni is always classic. But the pre-drinks are way better. 

Most of us head into the city centre for a night of liver-kicking, questionable moves and poor decisions.

It is a rite a passage for our generation and we wear our vomit soaked shoes with pride as we strut home with our kebab meat monstrosity.

Keeping it classy

But the best bit isn’t the night out in the dank, dark underworld we see every week.

It’s the epic onslaught of filling yourself with as much cheap alcohol as humanly possible before hitting the streets and paying that bank-breaking £2.50 for a double voddy and coke.

You can wear whatever you feel like

Drinking is never better than sipping some Chekov in your pjs, a onesie or, if you play the right games, just your underwear.

I wear a woman’s nightie at pres, and what?

No queues

Unless you’re throwing a legendary frat party there will be no queues for the club, toilets or food after the night of debauchery ends.

You”d have to queue for Willow


The point of a night out is to party with your pals and cut the strangest of shapes to your fave anthems, right?

So with some speakers a decent spotify list and your guys and girls you’re pretty set.

Best of friends xoxo


We all love the pre drinks games – finding out everyone’s disgusting secrets in “Never have I ever”.

But the best games are the classics. Add alcohol to Jenga and card games and they can be a great laugh.

Alcohol-fueled Twister is a fun but dangerous one. (Ladies don’t try this in a skirt as it always ends in ones dignity slipping as quickly as you’re sipping your beverage.)

Warning: arses will be flashed


There’s always people you don’t know at pre-drinks. That one lucky lady/lad you set your eye on for the rest of the nights antics.

Pre-drinking allows for that crucial first impression. As you both swig at your QuadVods and sink into that tipsy haze we all love you can graft as much as you like as  Marvin Gaye’s classic “Sexual Healing” serenades you in the background.

Her expression says “Im in”


Whether you’re in the close-knit circle or not, pre-drinks is the ultimate time to pick up on the recent goss.

Who’s fucking who, who’s been dumped, who chundered in a lecture, and who’s made the most embarrassing mistakes of the week.

Clubs are too noisy for a goss sesh. And you risk nosy sods listening in and spreading shit.

I heard they had a threesome…what?

The buzz

The Chekov is flowing like the Niagra Falls, and you’ve all hit that euphoric feeling of giddiness 45 minutes before the taxi arrives to end the fun and drag you to the expensive, sticky, creep-filled dance floor.

This buzz can either tide you over as you brace the cold, or make you regret strawpedo-ing the five pound bottle of wine as you vom your guts into the nearest saucepan and have to be tucked up early while your pals run off to continue the adventure without you.

The buzz is real

The control

We all love to be in control. From the music which is decided by the rules of shotgun or the phone battery which will never die now you’re blitzing it before you lose your friends in the nights crowds.

But most of all the people. You choose who enters your humble abode – you decide who is on the most private of guestlists for this private party.

Basically the Bullingdon Club

Then your night gets shit

It’s now 11pm and the taxis are arriving. You all look your best with your make up is fresh and ironed shirts.

The buzz takes over and you run into the cabs springing with joy. The banter with the driver is one you’ll never forget and as you say your goodbyes to Dave the man who has three kids, loves Man U and enjoys a nice slice of Brie.

You leave with your head buzzing, hands flailing and wallets full only to step into the brisk air and see the worst things you’ve have ever seen.

The queue to Phats. The rain. The cash point without money.

Life is shit.

Take me back to pre-drinks

You now regret leaving your companion tucked up in bed with vomit gracing their golden locks and the saucepan dangerously full of regurgitated pasta.

But no. You power though and trudge along in this frustrating, bladder-busting death march till you reach the pearly gates of your destination.

The game is on and you are pumped and ready to bust-a-move and use all your pre-drinking knowledge and graft to good use as you continue your night of shenanigans.

But whether you make it the whole night or pass out early, the result is always the same. You will crawl into your pals bed at midday for comfort from your heavy head and dreading the discussion of your most recent of antics.