It’s…. It’s everything. If lad culture was a country that’d be the national delicacy. 

You meet up with the lads around five for pre drinks, Rob thinks he’s a DJ because he figured out how to make playlists on his phone, you rib Jonesy (There’s always a Jonesy) for actually texting that one girl back after he got the lay (Didn’t boot her out of bed the next morning? Major hom). Eventually someone calls the taxis and, polo shirts buttoned to the top, hair gelled and lynx sprayed, you make your way into town. 

It’s 6, maybe 6.30. None of the good clubs are open yet. You could go into a pub, but you’re meeting with the girls later and you know Jess, who you’ve been trying to get on all week, hates pubs, so they’re out. (You are in love with Jess. You will never admit this, even to yourself. One day she will stop replying to your dick pics and, though you never realise it, a piece of you will be lost. A piece you can never regain.) So, cheeky nandos it is then. 

I… I wanna write more, but this is taking me to a dark place. Putting myself in that mindset…. I’m sorry this isn’t safe for me. I have to protect myself.