Saturday Night Out (In The Town)

Walking past Indian restaurants,
Full of men who have ordered too much.

Knowing they will regret it tomorrow,
And shaking your head as they drink heavily.

Being greeted by a bad tempered doorman
Whose vocabulary ends at five lettered words.

Walking into a club that have their floors covered in stale alcohol,
And their air filled with the smell of smoke and perspiration.

Being charged a small fortune for a drink,
And that's on top of the entrance fee.

Not hearing what people are saying for both the ear splitting music,
And the fact that they have lost all language control.

Being asked 'You got a fag mate?'
By a fellow whos every other word is one of swearing.

The chap who unimpressively tries to demonstrate
His drinking ability by drinking like there is no tomorrow

The lager louts falling out of the clubs
And proceeding to urinate in the nearest doorway.

The chain smoking, Stella Artois drinking aggressors
Who want to fight everything that moves.

The men who embarrass themselves
By talking about topics out of their depth.

Not being able to move for drunken, unstable people,
Who look as if they are about to show you what they had for dinner.

The intoxicated fellows who always give their unwanted,
Neanderthal opinion in every situation.

The overpowering smell of urine in the toilets,
And a mixture of urine and water covering the floors.

Having to urinate into a pile of cigarette ends,
And those yellow fresheners which do not work.

Being bombarded by someone trying to sell you aftershave
As you wash your hands.

Leaving the toilets to the sound of
someone attacking the condom machine.

The youngsters who always vomit at the bus stop,
Much to the amusement of their familiars.

The vociferous group of lads on the public transport,
Who sing annoying football songs.

The unimpressive males who shout taunts and abuse
At any and nearly all females in sight.

The unsociable females who fight each other
After an over-the-top drinking contest.

The ambulance turning up to deal with a drunk,
At the expense of innocent taxpayers.

Going home smelling of stale smoke, vomit and alcohol,
And wishing you hadn't spent so much.

Hearing police sirens wailing all of the walk home,
And wondering whether the danger is nearby.

The taxi drivers who charge over-the-top prices
And extra if you make a stop on the way.

Feeling unsafe and intimidated all evening and early morning,
Resulting in you looking at nothing other than your own shoes.

Which now happen to be covered in a mixture of three body fluids
And twelve different types alcohol. Oh and chewing gum.

Seeing familiar faces at the kebab van who apparently never learn,
And ask for extra hot sauce and chilli's.

Still ordering even though they know
It doesn't agree with their bowels.

Saturday nights out in town.