Saturday Night's NOT Alright.


Walking through town yesterday evening reminded me why I never go out on a Saturday night.

There seems to be a whole subspecies that exists at no other time except for then; a race with next-to-no clothing or spatial awareness. They sprawl about the pavement in groups, expressing their joy in barely discernible grunts. Their lack of an appropriate seasonal outfit suggests they’re happiest below freezing. They survive on chicken and chips. I think you get the picture.

I may be jealous in a way. I’ve never had that life. Then again, I'd never want it. I’d much rather spend a quiet night in at home than be shouting at the top of my voice over some shockingly drone-based music in a rammed club at 3am. In Nottingham. Or Coventry. I bloody hate Coventry.

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