Everything bound to happen to you in Heebies

Quids In, Liquidation, the new ‘Why Not’ Tuesdays; it’s a rite of passage for every Liverpool student to attend at least one of these nights at Heebie’s once a week. Whether you’re grooving to Tame Impala being edgy as can be or slut dropping with your gals to Queen B, its mass appeal is as tragic as it is terrific. It’s like Shit Indie Disco, Level and The Raz’s love child that’s obviously slightly weird but still your go-to for some unmissable ‘out out’ action.

‘Heebies? Heebies.’

Your 9am close reading seminar can piss right off. It’s Thursday night and £1 VKs are much more justifiable than actually keeping an attendance record your 12 year old self would’ve been proud of. You don’t even need to hound the group chat to convince them to come; Selina+9 has already been added to the Cool It Liverpool guest list.

Pres on time? You’re having a laugh mate.

It’s 9.30pm, you vowed to start pres earlier than last week as you missed the cut-off for guest list yet again. But your one friend is selfie priming, another is crying over a boy on your course and another is already passed out in their bathroom. This is inducing the heebie-jeebies guys (definition: a state of nervous fear or anxiety).

5 minutes into Heebies and chill

The queue (after you sold your soul to the devil to make it there for midnight).

“Stand up straight, look sober and stop emotionally pouring your heart out to the bouncer.”

And now for drinks.

Auctioning off your left arm and leg, or chatting up a guy you have no interest in whatsoever, is probably the only option if you want the typical, eye-watering £6.70 double. And even then, the bartenders have the audacity to put it in a clear glass instead of a black or white one, which is so not Instagram worthy. At least £2.50 on Thursdays means you will be absolutely battered, with money left for food on the way back.

Top floor Thursdays, bottom floor Fridays and Saturdays…

Where else can you hear Fluorescent Adolescent whimsically fade into Come on Eileen every damn week?

Queens of the smoking area

… But that’s where the creeps are.

I see you baby, staring at me ever so worryingly sipping your drink to the eerie beats of Joy Division.

Your friend is getting with the guy she was crying over earlier.

It’s like the Heebies skulls, but much less aesthetically pleasing with a 99.9% chance of being the gossip of the next lecture.

So alt, so edgy, so not what everyone else takes a photo of

You’ll take a pic in the massive mirror in the girl’s loos

It’s a given. Just accept it.

And then you’ll hear your friend sobbing in the toilets

Some random Scouse lass is telling her she’s beautiful and the guy she was sending signals to but ignored her for another gal is soooo missing out. C’mon girl, wipe your tears, “he’s not wooorrrthh ittttt.”

You will have to brave the smoking area at some point…

Smoker or non-smoker, you’ll have to enter this sea of bodies guaranteed, probably to find your mate you couldn’t text because the signal on the bottom floor is non-existent. Here you will see every soul on your course, that girl who was overly clingy in freshers and the lad your friend took home last week. Awkward.

Smoking area and white cup, how Heebies of us

… And then the queue for Nabzy’s

Hello red salt fries and garlic mayo, my old friend.

Attempting to recall the night the next day.

Your memories may be as shady as the men you encountered and the club photos are as grim as you anticipated (to hell with crappy filters and crappier angles), but you have this tingly sensation all over you – no it’s not pain from falling down the stairs again, it’s you aching to go there just hours after you left. ‘Till we meet again, Heebz xo