Now don’t get me wrong, without queues, society just wouldn’t function as well. Although I think we’d all agree that they often cross the line (ha ha).
But when you’ve been stood in a sea of sweaty students for a solid twenty minutes – and I do not exaggerate – you begin to contemplate the meaning of life*:
- Why am I here?
- When did my life become this?
- Why is the world so cruel? I just want some tequila.
*depending on how much you consumed at pres.
No matter which bar your merry self drifts to, there just seems to be no real solution to the dilemma. Every bar is swarmed with crowds of people yelling and squawking, huddled together like they’re stuck in the middle of the hokey-cokey. It’s not an ideal place to be. So, you go on to the next one, thinking, surely it can’t be that tragic. Oh how wrong you are.
Not only are you squished like a tinned sardine, but you are now being showered with intermittent sprays of jagerbombs which come hurtling back through the crowd in a pair of hands that appear to look like two periscopes emerging from the sea water. To add to this, your feet are being stamped on, you’ve lost your friends and you stand alone, looking longingly at the glistening shiny bottles which are so close yet so far.
At this point, you realise you have two options: ride or die. Or, less dramatically, just get yourself the bev, or go home accompanied by your onion rings.
For the mighty individuals who power on through the struggle, wiggle their way in and dammit, earn their place, you deserve your drink! We salute you!
But for those who just slowly accept that the queue life is just not for them, we’ll drink to that (even though you can’t).
