MIXMAG by Patrick Hinton
February 13, 2017
“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double strength onion cider a friend has procured for pennies from a dodgy corner shop down the street that only sells out-of-date booze, “I’ll stick to Kronenbourg.”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.
The timing varies. Sometimes it hits shortly after stepping into a cab 10 minutes from your front door to head to the other side of the city, when the hacking cough of a new acquaintance besides you cuts through the fog and their promise of a rumoured “banging basement rave” begins to sound doubtful as the car cruises through leafy suburbs. Sometimes it hits upon entering said “banging basement rave” and discovering it is indeed seven Tap Out-donning lads from Luton huffing poppers and pumping 2004 brostep mixes in a grotty subterranean living room. Sometimes it comes later, but usually a while before the willpower to actually remove your ailing self from the equation is worked up.
Calling it a night before it gets to this stage can do wonders for your wellbeing. Have a good time, but make sure it is actually a good time. Don’t ruin your Sunday and your health for an afterparty that turns into something more like a scene preceding the afterlife, with ostensibly lifeless bodies strewn across all corners.
Let’s face it, Netflix and a cuppa in bed trumps sitting on a spilt lager-drenched carpet while a conversation consisting solely of the word “huh?” happens listlessly around you. Staying up for three days straight is one thing when you’re in Ibiza or Croatia, bathing in vitamin D and soaking in a villa pool. But when you’re in the depths of winter in London or Leeds, or Manchester or Glasgow, entering Monday with some degree of freshness beats returning to normality midway through Wednesday afternoon for the sake of a few extra hours cocooned in a room with a suffocating atmosphere of cigarette smoke that would make the smog levels of a Beijing winter taste like the air in the Amazon rainforest.
So when it gets to the point where a drink with a toxicity higher than the average Chemistry lab test tube begins to sound palatable; when you don’t have the energy to protest against a weak chart house mix some rogue intruder to the group has put on which would have earlier resulted in an aux cable war of the ages; when a pint of Vicks would struggle to clear your sinuses; when curtains begin to resemble the cape of a super hero protecting you from the cruel, fiery beast that is the sun; basically when you check your watch and the thought of turning in crosses your mind for the first time, that’s when you know the potential for any fun has expired, and it’s time to leave the afterparty.
Check out the article here: http://mixmag.net/feature/when-should-you-leave-the-afterparty/2