A ‘girls night out’ sounds like a very elegant and classy affair. It suggests the sipping of cocktails and wearing elegant dresses, plenty of pretentious planning and coquettish giggling as one exclaims ‘I think I’m getting tipsy’ and promptly goes home to bed. A ‘girls night out,’ however, is usually anything but.
Expectation – You will gather at a selected friends house for pre drinks, perfectly primped, and sip fruit juice cocktails you have made with all the correct measures of alcohol.
Reality – You’re either all mixing vodka and lemonades and giving yourself extra generous triples or drinking glasses of wine large enough to hold 3/4 of a bottle. In fact you do finish the bottle, swiftly opening a second. Someone has already begun subtly twerking as you listen to club tunes and leave an hour later than planned.
Expectation – As a group you breeze up to the bar and the barman immediately rushes over to serve you while you pretend not to notice the admiring yet respectful stares of the men in the venue.
Reality – You jostle against the crowd and try to catch the barman’s eye. Your most well endowed friend hoists her breasts onto the bar but it still takes over 10 minutes to get a round of badly made cocktails and some inevitable Jagerbombs. A group of 50 year old men waiting behind you use the crowded bar as an excuse to breathe down your necks and get disgustingly close. Despite this, when they offer to buy you a drink, the member of the group always complaining that she’s skint accepts.
Expectation – You’ll take a very brief trip to the toilets and retouch your makeup.
Reality – There’s no toilet roll left so you’re using a receipt you found in your purse. You’re in the cubicle with a friend and she can’t do up her bodysuit – You end up getting extremely intimate with her in a rush to get out because you’ve been in that toilet for 5 minutes already and people will start to question you. You look in the mirror and your makeup has gone downhill. To fix this you smother on any product you can get your hands on, returning to the bar feeling glamorous but looking like a smudged oil painting.
Expectation – Positioned daintily in the seating area, you will be approached by a herd of Tom Hardy lookalikes who will smother you with compliments and politely leave you with a business card withdrawn from a sharp-fitting suit.
Reality – A group of 19 year olds staying at the local Butlins shout something like ‘nice arse’ at the collective group and seem offended when aforementioned arses aren’t promptly exposed out of gratitude. A 5″6 boy clearly using a fake ID and stinking of Frosty Jacks asks if you’ll go for a Kebab with him at the end of the night. A friends ex is standing over the other side of the room and you spend half an hour consoling her and quite literally parading her around in front of him whilst growling “we need to show him what he’s missing” in her ear. She is sobbing slightly but trots obediently at your side like a show pony. Everyone’s hair is being flipped over their shoulder a lot at this stage because, – Well, just because.
Expectations – You are on the dance floor swaying in time to the music, expertly maneuvering your high heels.
Reality – You do a bit of fist pumping, Magaluf-style. There is a lot of grinding going on and not in a sexy music video way; you just sort of clutch at your friends hips and thrust a bit. You try to convert your occasional stumbling into a dance move and feel pretty fricking smooth when you don’t even fall over.
Expectations – When everybody feels fulfilled with the evening you will share a taxi home, making polite small talk with the driver about what a lovely sophisticated night you have shared.
Reality – Your friend has gone home with the ex she was crying over two hours ago to add further depth to ‘showing him what he’s missing.’ The taxi driver is threatening you to not be sick in his car and refusing to turn the music up despite your demands. In protest you retract your previous destination of a home address and get him to drop you at the grotty local nightclub instead.