Bank Holiday Rant

My weekend of pain...

Blood covered floor, crazed men wandering the streets, debris flapping around in vomit covered bins. This is not the apocalypse, this is the after math of a bank holiday in Sheffield Town Centre, most notably, West Street.
As I have recently left the student life behind me and no longer frequent bars in the week, the concept of Bank Holiday is a new and all together frightening one. I work in a bar on West Street, not the nicest of bars, but pretty much the same as the other establishments, which act as pseudo brothels/asylums for the recently paid and animal like creatures which drag themselves with blistered bare feet, up and down this mating ground.
I am a hypocrite, I am obviously a part of this drunken haze of a lifestyle, as I have already said I was a student until very recently, but the kind of hell I experienced working on a bank holiday feels like I have been hit round the head by a Jagerbomb and have come to the cold hard realisation is that to ‘live for the weekend’ and most notably, Bank Holiday is to live to be a mess. It’s an overwhelming depressing state of affairs when there lack something else to live for, so yes, drink, be merry, just don’t make me clean your blood up.

All night the usual stream of evil doers and ‘lads’ poured in the door until the place was brimming with nasty, nasty grinding and slurred speech; then midnight hit and you could barely move without treading on the debris of WKD bottles and high heels flung around the floor.

This is what you are to expect going out on a night, and I understand this, I just do not understand how, on a Sunday night, mothers, daughters, 9-5ers, dad, boys, granddads can come together and choose to brawl, full on brawl. I heard mothers say to their daughters things that even Jeremy Kyle would try to block out. I also saw a big, big fight. Two lads bumped into each other, and then into another two lads, and then into another, it was like watching vodka filled particles colliding to create a new world, this world has bottles raining from the sky, blood spurting out to cover innocent bystanders (I say innocent I mean girls just ‘getting low) this continued until the police came to shut us down. At this point, the poor things gathered around the watering hole were still trying to get served, still clutching desperately onto the bank holiday mentality although they could see through the bleary clouds of sambuca, their night was coming to an end. The venom I feel towards this night is not that people like to get drunk, it is that, personally, if I were to go out knowing I would 1. Call my mother and pretty much everyone a slag, 2. Get covered in blood, 3. Have to go home at 12 because no one would let me in due to points 1 and 2, I would board the windows up, sit at home eating my weight in cakes waiting for the next weekend, where perhaps, if I was lucky, I could get home without losing completely the shred of dignity I attained from working hard all week, although that is difficult from the offset because, as one of them, I probably am wearing a napkin and calling it a dress. If only they had burnt it all down.