You all drink your cans and eat your biscuits and use Spotify wired through the PlayStation (you have to tap each letter out with the unintuitive keyboard, it getting more and more difficult to request what you want as the cans get sunk) to put on non-single Arctic Monkeys songs, and you all drink somewhere between three to four more litres of beer and are up and down for pisses once every seven or eight minutes at this point, and you hold out until about 2AM, until your eyes start drooping so you get a cab home (“Yes mate Homerton mate,” you say, before falling deeply and instantly asleep in the back of a Prius) and when you all finally leave the toilet is an absolute – and I mean this very truly – an absolute fucking mess
YOU HAVE SORT OF WON FRIDAY NIGHT
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