You've probably necked half a bottle of vodka already and that was just doing your hair. The over-priced, but not yet double-priced, "mini-cab" awaits, clock ticking and you still haven't decided where you're going. What a tit. Everywhere's going to be full by the time you get there because you didn't buy a ridiculously-priced advance ticket and now there's a queue. A fucking queue! For this shithole! By midnight, the shit's come out of the hole and is floating past you as you head to the toilet knee-deep in fifteen puddles of piss. Twenty-five quid for this? Are you having a fucking laugh? Then back to the bar, now seven rugby players deep this side and not a sober barman in sight on the other. A second queue at the cloakroom before you can get out and the "mini-cab" that promised to pick you up has fucked off already with three sluts from Essex.
Well, you can stick it, I'm staying in. Happy New Year.
