Friday night in the pub

Any Friday, 5.30pm: you’ve crossed off the last thing on your oh-so-anally-retentive to-do list; the orifice is already a deserted place, the buzz of bullshit conversation, macho corporate posturing and echoing ringtones pleasingly absent as the laptop-wielding sentries have left their posts and you can finally breeze through the tasks that involve headspace and quiet; those with families return to their identities as fun-loving parents, shedding their veils of colleague-ness as they whizz away down the M40 towards the weekend. And with others, the parting greeting is “See you in a bit”, not “Have a lovely weekend”.

Ideally within this tableau the sun is shining unguardedly and the pub invites you to sup a crisp cool pint to cut through the muggy oppressiveness of your officey existence. But it’s not the setting or the drinks that spark the little bit of excitement about Friday night boozing. It’s the mouth-watering anticipation of being free, relaxed, unguarded, witty and unprofessional. The exhilarating contrast between your sober assertions of competence in the workplace and your revelation of who you really are in the magical realm of the pub.

Sometimes I wonder what it is about being a bit drunk that I like so much. Why I and people I know aspire to getting shitfaced and why those stories of drunken idiocy are the funniest of all. Is it our culture influencing us relentlessly, outside what it really feels like to be pissed? Society that dictates that it is cool and fun and invites us to talk about it, every time ignoring the inevitable hangover that will ensue? Some kind of strange machismo of youth that says drinking makes you strong and belong? Maybe that’s what makes you start it, but I’m old enough now to realise that I wouldn’t carry on doing it if it wasn’t enjoyable – and Friday night in the pub really typifies what is most enjoyable about it.

Starting out with relief at the fact of Friday, and the catharsis of saying what you really mean about the day’s events, the cool beery nectar loosens your tongue and your energy is released again. Sparking off your friends you set out to shock them with frankness and tickle them with vulgarity. Laughter erupts and the volume increases, and the whole thing becomes entrancing and addictive. The beer garden is covered with an energetic duvet of Friday flirtiness and excited conversation, until the surface is pierced by one overly drunken individual who likes the sound of his own voice a bit too much. Apart from that guy we all become more likeable and full of beans.

Some slip off early and return to families and boyfriends and bed, and I can’t help thinking they are missing out on being part of the witching hour, the time of night when only the hard core are left, those that amuse each other the most. We become fond and everyone goes back to mine, anxious to spend more time in the company of people they like so much. It’s smily and silly and it makes me feel warm and cushioned and I suppose it’s what it’s all about really. People and laughter.