1:59 AM: We all recognise that certain point in a night out. You’ve been dancing for 3 hours straight, the jaegerbombs have left you feeling a little unsteady and your once full wallet now only contains a single crumpled fiver. Do you really want to spend it on another drink? No, it’s cold and you’re hungry: you want a takeaway. Now that you think about it, you really want a takeaway. You ask your mates. They agree and you look like a hero for taking the initiative when everyone has been bored of the club for the last hour. You hatch a plan. It’s the start of something beautiful.
2:20 AM: The walk to the burger van/ chippie/ kebab house takes three times as long as you thought. You didn’t bring a coat depsite the fact it’s December in England. And then, to make matters worse, every student in town has had the same idea and they’re all queueing for food. Should you give up? No, you stick to your guns and join the (noticeably staggering) queue. Some things are worth waiting for.
2:28 AM: The queue creeps forward but now you’re faced with a bigger dilemma. What do you want to eat? A kebab? You’re not sure if you can summon the dexterity to finish it with your dignity intact. Pizza is easier to eat but the grease might literally kill you. What about fried chicken? You curse your drunkenness as you grapple with the decision, struggling to decide whether a larger portion of chips is really worth the extra 40p.
2:30 AM: You get to the front of the queue and blurt out the first food-related thing that comes into your head. In a desperate bid to save some face, you attempt to strike up a conversation with the guy behind the counter as you fumble for change in your pockets. Fortunately, you’re drunk and you think it’s working. You collect your food feeling good about yourself while the person who served you immediately moves on to the 347th drunk customer of the night.
Burning Your Mouth
2:31 AM: In your enthusiasm, you immediately shovel a fistful of chips into your mouth. You quickly discover that they had come straight from the fryer and now your mouth is roughly the same temperature as the sun. Never let anyone tell you that you don’t suffer for your art (assuming that your art is eating takeaways).
2:36 AM: Once the pain in your mouth has faded it becomes apparent that getting food was the best idea ever had by anyone, ever. Has food ever tasted this good before? You’re not sure. Will food ever taste this good again? It’s pretty unlikely. You eat as you walk home, your fingers protected against the night air by a coat of grease and salt. Conversation feels simultaneously funny and sophisticated as everyone’s mood is lifted by the communal joy that is post-booze chips. You finish, perfectly satisfied, and go to bed, confident that you’ve mastered the secrets of a great night out.
12:03 PM: Oh no. Oh no. You wake up and it’s immediately apparent that something is very, very wrong. You feel like you’ve had your blood replaced with vegetable oil and the inside of your mouth tastes like a landfill. The smell of garlic mayo in your room is so thick that you’re pretty sure you can see it. The source of your misery sits on your desk where you left it: a grubby polystyrene box containing the remains of last night’s takeaway. Internally you debate whether it would be better to cry, vomit or go back to sleep. You choose the latter, resigned to the fact that you probably won’t achieve anything meaningful for the rest of the weekend and that you’ll do exactly the same thing again the next time you go out.