There is a scent of reasonably fresh ingredients, partially digested before violently rejected by the body along different types of late night eateries. I am able to clearly remember the smell as I have not been able to drink enough to block out all of the horrible and just plain disgusting acts. I walk along with the scent of lager on my breathe but that is where the similarities end. If my alcohol level had been raised then this may have passed as an acceptable, maybe a little pass “fair”. If I had enough to be committed to an IV drip and lose my motor skills it could have been nice. However, I wasn’t and I see it all too often. Friday nights.

The smell invades and churns my stomach. Yet, people seem to have killed off their senses and scruples by entering the crude cafeteria and ordering food and drink. They always buy for the people who are hanging outside the take away shops, despite the fact that it is clearly not, in any way, able to eat this glorified grease with out vomiting uncontrollably. Sitting on the repulsive floor, which doesn’t smell to hygienic in the first place, with dark rings under their eyes which takes all the other colour from their face. They mumble something incoherent under their breathe, which is the only energy they can muster. These solid masses of alcohol induced apathy are common most nights. In fact, I’m well aware that at some points in my life I sat on that floor staring at passers by with all the enthusiasm of an elderly hedgehog that didn’t follow the highway code on the M7. However, these zombies tend to be out in full force on a Friday night along with the tramps.

Girls of all ages see Friday night as a night to portrait there inner desire of being a disease ridden, over made up, poorly attired whores. During the week, and even in the daytime, there are a small population of women that dress themselves up in these manners in the hope that one day their boyfriend will whisk them to the Jeremy Kyle Show for a DNA test on the latest unwanted spawn. But the vast majority of the female species understand that men like women who appear clean. Women look truly beautiful when they are underplaying themselves, when they keep things to bare essentials in terms of make up. On Fridays, that all changes. Determined to rid the world of beauty, they slap toxic waste upon their faces and pour themselves  into the poorest excuse for rags and fabric that has ever graced god’s green earth. Not only do they look the part, they sound the part of walking shit in high heels. Screeching about men and sex at the top of their lungs as if they are the only people that have ever experienced it apart from mainstream celebrities. They slur and shout but always fail to make sense unless they are talking about mobile phones or past boyfriends that make you realise why these girls got dumped in the first place. There is nothing at all redeemable about girls on the Friday night. They are indeed suitable candidates for a mass genocide. If you go out on a Friday night and meet a girl who looks genuinely pretty and isn’t shrieking at the top of their voices about things that only matter to them, I suggest you have found the rose that grew out of the pot of manure. Friday night girls look like Jack Nicholson in the original Tim Burton Batman film. They all fell in a vat of chemicals and came out psychotic and disfigured. But these are still not the worse things about Friday nights.

Every time I go out on a Friday night there are people who are frustrated about their lives for whatever reason. Unfortunately these people look forward to Friday nights as their reward for living through their life another week, meaning they infiltrate every pub and club that possible exist in Britain. This leads to them drinking far much more they can handle, which then leads to pockets of self loathing and hostility. Friday nights are violent. It is a fact. Friday nights are when everybody is tired after a stressful week and sit smiling on their exterior, while secretly seething on the inside. Once they have consumed more than two pints they are an active volcano, waiting for some minor incident to permit them to erupt and fill the sky with their own spiteful lava. Usually it is a minor incident, sometimes they don’t need any type of stimuli to poison an entire area with their aggressive venom. You just have to walk down a high street in any town centre and you’ll see groups of men shouting, swearing and quite likely pushing or physical fighting outside pubs. The only people I see with any type of control are the guardians of the clubs, or doormen as they are more commonly known as. The violence sends a force up in the air that makes everyone who isn’t halfway to drunken oblivion uneasy. It feels like paranoia but it is a very real threat to people. If you don’t tread extremely carefully then someone is going to try a start a conflict with you that will leave you shaken in the best case scenario.

Air feels heavier, the lights seem more bright to the point they are obnoxious, the smell is that of alcohol escaping the pores on men and choking on the make up fumes of the girls, sounds of shouting and screaming serenades like an army of pop idol cats. This is truly the hell of modern British society. Fuck Fridays.