The 10 Stages Of A Night Out In Malta
Documenting this ancient rite of passage
Ah, the weekend. For those of us at school or in full-time employment, the weekend is a magical place full of promise, drinks, dancing, and the time for general debauchery, sticky floors, and (sometimes) misguided decisions. Hold on to your dignity – we’re talking about what happens, more or less, on a good old night out in Paceville.
1. Unbridled optimism
As you count every agonizing minute down to the end of your work or school day, you can already feel the excitement rise in your gut like cheap tequila. It’s been a long week. You deserve a good night out, so rally the troops and get your night-out-playlist ready.
2. Drink up, buttercup
Right – we look fly as hell and we’re here to have a good time. There’s a pretty strong chance that you’ll hit Big G’s, Quenchers, or Bellini’s at this point because you just need to get the party started before the real shenanigans begin.
3. Inġibu tray?
Translation: Shall we make the first terrible decision of the night and order a tray of shots?
You might have moved to somewhere like Havana, Nordic, or Native by now. You turn to look at your partner in crime, your eyes meet, and you say with a smirk: “shots?!”
4. Immediate regret
That was a terrible idea. You’re so going to be sick. Okay, no – you’re fine. Phew. Let’s not to that again.
BRING ME MORE OF SATAN’S FIRE-JUICE, BARTENDER!
This is the bit where you’re obviously more wasted than the hundreds of thousands of euros we’ve spent trying to win the Eurovision, but you’re a proud drinker and you slur the words, ‘Noooooo, I’m not drunk, as if’.
The first step is admitting you have a problem – well done. Now that you’ve admitted to being drunk beyond hope it’s time to move on to the next problem, namely that YOU’RE DRUNK TEXTING YOUR EX PUT THE PHONE DOWN!
8. The unraveling
You know this moment. It’s the part of the night when shit hits the fan. Two people in your squad have had a fight, someone else is sitting on a gross step crying about something or other, your normally-quiet friend is dancing in that cage in Havana, and your other friend is about to get punched in the face for grabbing the wrong butt at the wrong time. Yay!
In a futile attempt to save yourselves from the Panama Papers of all hangovers, you’ll probably head to the iconic Champs or Maxims for a Wudy and one of those pizzas that are clearly dirtier than your morals at this point.
You somehow survived to live and drink another day. Sort of. The hangover is going to hurt, but not as much as hearing what you did last night…
BONUS: The last one standing
Sometimes, you’re the one who just doesn’t know when- or indeed how – to quit. Your friends are long gone, and you’re basically at Clique because it’s probably the only place still open at this point. Are you okay? You should call your mum. Go home.