My little brother just turned 18. That means loud footsteps at 5am, vomit around the letterbox, beer bottle lids everywhere and a bunch of his incoherent friends balancing their way around the living room every Saturday evening. Bless ‘em, though. They remind me of my own days as a frustratingly eager club virgin.
I’m 24. That means I’m basically an undercover cop inside most of the venues on my brother’s ‘to do’ list. It also means that enough time has elapsed for me to climb atop a higher horse and judge his actions, even if my judgement stems from jealousy. I’ve certainly learned a lot, and after six weeks of living vicariously though his time as a club patron, I’ve come to understand the ritual quite well.
4pm: There’s always some little weasel in the group who thinks having the first beer before sundown is the coolest thing since blowjobs. Around 2pm, said kid gets antsy and whines until everyone stops playing Xbox and goes to the bottle shop. They always return with enough alcohol to sedate Ireland, because going out as an 18-year-old can only be done when you’re so buckled you forget your date of birth when quizzed by the bouncer.
7pm: They’re all shitfaced. Playing Four Kings (or a similar drinking game) is a prerequisite. You can’t go out unless you’ve all sat around a table and called one another “fucking pussies” for not drinking red UDLs fast enough. “We’re not getting in a cab until it’s all gone,” they shout. That’s why one of them always peaks by about 8:30, tries to have a D&M with the parents, then vomits in a rubbish bin before being shoveled off the pavement and tossed in the spare bedroom.
9pm: Everyone says “alright lets get a cab!” “Order a cab!” “OI DAMO ORDER A CAB” “Shot not ordering a cab.” “Who ordered the cab?” “What’s the cab number?” “OIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!” They scream like this for forty five minutes and punch each other in the arm and do other shit people in their twenties remember doing but refuse to admit.
10pm: They order a cab and all greet the driver with bellowing voices, like he’s a long lost friend: “how’s it goin’ mate?” each one of them shouts as they funnel into the maxi. From here on out, I’m relying on rampant speculation.
11pm: After drinking for seven hours, they get rejected from the ‘cool club’. They throw some shade at the bouncer then catcall and wolf whistle their way to club #2. They get in because the bouncer knows if the club doesn’t start filling up more on Saturday nights he won’t have a job.
11 – 2am: They drink vodka Red Bulls and talk to people about how you can never find good drugs anymore, like they’ve been fucking searching all their lives. They also do this thing were they drunkenly stare at a girl, and if the girl connects eyes with them, they blurt out the first thing in their head. Usually it’s just a “hey”, but sometimes they’ll offer a drink or say something unintentionally patronising. Whatever it is, it will never be effective, no matter what they try and tell you the following day.
2 – 4am: They try and find the “good” drugs they’ve spent the whole night talking about (because they don’t exist). If they find them, the rest of the night blurs into a stream of incomprehensible shit, right up until they get into a cab, head home and stay awake long enough for my dad to tell them all to shut the fuck up.
If they don’t find drugs, the vodka Red Bulls and Jager catch up with them. They get kicked out, vomit somewhere fairly public (this is important: 18-year-olds never get to a back alley or side street quick enough – they vomit in plain view of everyone around them), then dangle off a podium chair in the local McDonalds until they’re sober enough to be dragged into a cab.
11am: They wake up and talk about how good of a night it was. It was “epic”.
Meanwhile, this is me.
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Main photo by The Guardian. Words by James Simpson.
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