“No thanks,” you say, politely turning down the double strength onion cider a friend has procured for pennies from a dodgy corner shop down the street that only sells out-of-date booze, “I’ll stick to Kronenbourg.” That’s at the start of the afterparty, when you’ve not long left the club and finally found the address your mate had given you. You’ve still got your wits about you, and the ability to make logical decisions… just.
An indeterminate number of hours later (you’ve lost count, and the ability to count for that matter) and you’re reconsidering your stance on the onion cider while staring soullessly into the abyss of an empty fridge. That industrial farm waste sounds like an OK offer now, as the abyss begins to stare back at you. Or maybe that’s a delusion brought on by enduring the faux-intellectual ramblings of an art student to your left who just launched into a 45-minute monologue about Friedrich Nietzsche (“His indulgence in incest was far more radical than any of his passé philosophies,” they scoff, to no one) mere seconds after introducing themselves for the first time. “This is fun. I’m having fun. I’m enjoying this,” you tell yourself, weakly, as your internal monologue steadily morphs into the voice of Peep Show’s Mark Corrigan.
If that doesn’t sounds loosely familiar, then good going. But sensing when to throw in the towel and head to bed can be an issue for many of us who chase nights long past their sell by date, landing in bleak situations controlled by the force of a potent combination of misplaced FOMO and fuzzy headspaces.
Partying, and afterpartying, is fun, for the most part. Good tunes, good chat – what could be better? But when over indulging in these pursuits there comes a very specific point where they are no longer fun, and this moment should be taken as an immediate cue to head home and save your body and mind the ordeal of breaking through to afternoon in a state of dazed self-loathing.