Can’t remember? Well, then it didn’t happen… Do you ever question how you’ve found yourself surrounded by an abundance of Willy Wonka’s umpa lumpas, or standing front row to Belfast’s very own fight night between two overly alcohol fuelled ‘lads’, with the unfortunate loser left standing with his two front teeth soaking in a polystyrene cup, half filled with luke warm milk? We have all experienced a night that we wake up wishing for amnesia; a night that is only ever referred to again as ‘that’ night. Be it from streaking tans, to Box brawls, the Northern Irish rain isn’t the only thing to bring a dampener on a night out!

We’ve all been to those clubs, which despite being hotspots for first years and those twenty-something year olds who have refused to grow up, we can end up in the same situation of having achieved the schoolboy error of idiotically mixing drinks. Thus, leading you to falsely believe that you’re some kind of irresistible stud, seeking out your prey like a scene straight out of a David Attenborough documentary. But don’t worry, if your ‘irresistible’ chat-up lines didn’t work inside, the SOS bus is always there awaiting your exit to help warm up your dreadful night with that ‘amazing chicken soup’ and some bread. Yep, just plain bread. Sorry, no chicken tikka sandwiches here. It evidently sounds like you have taken the plunge and entered Belfast’s nightlife, most likely at the infamous Odyssey area.

After three hours of awkwardly shuffling around the sticky dance floor, aka experiencing life within a cattle market, 2.30am approaches and you may find yourself questioning whether or not your last shot has led to impaired vision, or whether that real life angel you see before you is in fact clutching a bucket in an attempt to catch whatever has successfully escaped from the vortex which is your stomach. While feebly trying to keep your head from rolling off your shoulders, you have regrettably found yourself having entered ‘the bus’. You never want to enter ‘the bus’.

From trying your best to stay as far away as possible from the ‘yellow zone’, and attempting to, oh so elegantly, take off those toe crippling heels, who knows what stage you’ve reached on the ‘Drunken Scale’. Who cares?! The diet that has been going on all week has just been washed away down the street, along with half your makeup, as the mini, golden treasure chests full of cheesy chips, kebabs and burgers, become our comforters. The moral of the story, food is always the answer!

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