12:43 A.M.
Those Yelp reviews told NO LIES. Coppers would most definitely not pass even the sketchiest of under the table health inspections, and the bouncers obviously ignored those ‘100 people maximum capacity’ guidelines and went for a hard 250. The club was grimy, borderline moldy and hordes of half-naked people were pressed up against each other like cattle. They were literally panting on one another – all heavily perspiring, all with vacant expressions plastered across their faces. Everyone was dead in the eyes.
This is some real Walking Dead shit, I thought to myself, shuddering a little.
“So what do you think?” one of our new Irish friends asked me. I gave the mess before me a good look over.
“This, boys, is what Americans like to call ‘ratchet.'”
Watching one girl violently twerk against a guy who obviously needed to be sterilized was making me nauseous, so I turned to Brandon. “I have to use the bathroom – if I’m not back within 15 minutes, promptly send out an Amber Alert.”
And then I was off. I felt like a valiant explorer navigating the trenches of the Amazon rain forest as I pushed through the sticky masses as if they were jungle vines. The stench of sweat, beer, and broken dreams hung in the air.
God, now I’m going to need like 5 more showers. There wasn’t enough Dove Body Wash in the damn world.
Finally, I stumbled upon the promised land/the bathroom, where I instantly heard the brutal hurls of some chick throwing up what I suspect were 17 gin and tonics and an Aero chocolate bar*. Another girl just sat there, in the middle of the filthy tiled floor – probably also caked in a thin layer of vomit – staring blankly at a wall. (She was obviously traumatized by the belligerent mating rituals she had witnessed tonight. Hopefully, she had a psychiatrist on call!)
Sidestepping over her legs, I acrobatically maneuvered like a Cirque du Soleil performer to the first stall. I kicked open the door – which was duct-taped to the hinges – only to find another random who appeared to be snorting coke off of the toilet seat. Not exactly sanitary but… you do you, boo.
*If you’re American and haven’t tried one of these bad boys yet, do it now. They were undoubtedly the highlight of my London study abroad experience, next to that time the lead singer of The Airborne Toxic Event reached over to shake my hand, which I’m 90% sure was his way of proposing to me. But anyway.
“Um, sorry,” I said, pivoting over to the second – and luckily vacant – stall.
Exiting the bathroom and finding Brandon again was also an Olympian task. I had one individual literally stumble over to me – despite the fact that he was probably 24, he somehow managed to look like an old lighthouse keeper, all gray and decrepit and smelling like Campbell’s soup. Instead of a lamp, he held an empty cocktail glass close to his face, probably guiding his way to all the single thots.
“Yerrr sawhhh buhhlooooddd,” Lighthouse Man slurred to me.
“Excuse me? Can I help you?”
“Yerrrr sawwwhhhhh…”
“Yeah, you’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Perrraatttayyyy…”
“Can I get a translator over here?” I glanced around. “I have no idea what this dude is saying. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?”
He cleared his throat. “Yer soh bluhday prettay. Aye thank wee shuhd duhnce.” Spit flew in my direction at an alarming rate.
“Flattered, thanks. But I think what you need is an exorcism, not someone to dance with.”
“Wot?”
“Never mind. It was nice meeting you,” Within seconds I was sucked back into the vortex of the deranged dance crowd, shoving myself through a net of random unwashed limbs. Every person I saw was a shining example of why you should avoid inbreeding. Then, another moron spun towards me and reached an arm out, ostensibly trying to grope my butt.
“NOT TODAY, SON, NOT TODAY.”
I swatted his pervy hand away and glared, to which he just smiled stupidly and guiltily back. I get it, I have a booty that can launch a thousand ships, but can you not?
“Oohhh. Yer ah feistay ohne.”
Did everyone in this godforsaken place need subtitles?
“I know Krav Maga and keep a taser and 2 pepper sprays on me at all times. Don’t mess with me, kid.”
(I didn’t lie. A bubblegum pink pepper spray is attached to my key chain and the other looks exactly like a pen until you remove the cap. Tim is very serious about keeping his only daughter safe.)
“Oi. Aye cood be inta thaaat…”
“Brandon!” I screamed out, completely ignoring him. “Where are you? I’m in a labyrinth of douchebags!” I pushed past Mr. Sexual Harassment, feeling lightheaded and frantic from the flashing lights, cloud of cigarette smoke, and retched odors. I was blocked by a couple intertwined in front of me. The guy had a strikingly similar body type to Pumba from The Lion King and was sloppily open mouth kissing the girl, attacking her with his tongue before my very eyes. You could practically hear them exchanging bodily fluids. A tiny bit of drool leaked out from the corner of his mouth.
Jesus was probably up in heaven right then just like, “I did NOT die for this shit.”
Meanwhile, I dry heaved.
12:58 A.M.
Among the island of misfit ratchets, I finally spotted Brandon and rushed over like I was Tom Hanks in Castaway, fully embracing him.
“Oh, thank Beyoncé! I was so scared.”
“Don’t worry, you’re safe now.”
“I need to blackout pronto so I can forget the unspeakable things I’ve witnessed tonight.”
One of our Irish friends turned to me and said, “I can buy you a drink if you want. You’re coherent, which means you’re still too sober for Coppers.”
And so we headed to the bar. I promptly learned that a) Coppers takes advantage of the unruly drunks by enacting TWO price increases throughout the night and b) their drinks look like sewer water mixed with the rainbow milk you get in your bowl after eating Fruity Pebbles cereal.
“That’ll be 14 euro for the tequila soda,” the bartender, who resembled an Orc from Lord of the Rings, told us. 14 euros? For that crap? If I ever bought my own drinks I would be outraged. Outraged, I tell you.
1:09 A.M.
A couple overpriced, contaminated cocktails later and we were all dancing to a remixed version of a Pitbull song which managed to sound even more tragic than the original. I guess Coppers is gifted, after all! Over the next few hours, the snapshots from my memory begin to muddy. It’s one of those things where if I honestly took a moment to think back and reflect on it, I’m sure I could piece together the string of events. I danced for a long time. We paused to take a group photo with our new friends.
But something tells me my life decisions got exponentially more questionable as the night went on, so for the sake of my future children (Arianna Jr and Arianna the Third) I’m going to choose to repress it all and fast forward.
4:00 A.M.
I’m guessimating it was about 4 in the morning when we left Coppers due to mild starvation. There was only one thing on our minds: kebabs. (Also, whether I had gotten my tetanus shot because I would be needing about ten after tonight.) Our Irish friends took us to a random drunk food staple where I documented the occasion to prove we were still (mostly) functioning.
The next couple of hours were a blur of chilling at the restaurant, being introduced to more Irish folks, going to some random house, and Brandon waking me up in our Uber to say we had returned to our Airbnb and needed to be at the airport soon.
“That kebab was so good,” I remember mumbling sleepily to him, always focused on the important things in life.
7:00 A.M.
For the first time in human history, I was punctual… Which ended up being a major mistake. The airline worker informed us that even though it claimed our flight was ‘on time’ online – that was somehow a lie and it was actually delayed 2 hours.
9:00 A.M.
Our flight was delayed another two hours. I’m not sure what sins I committed that led me to this fate, but I was ready to repent.
10:45 A.M.
My phone pinged.
“You’ve been tagged in a photo.”
Can we talk about how that’s the most horrifying notificoco to EVER receive the morning after? I couldn’t recall any photos that hadn’t been taken on my phone. Damnit, Zuckerberg… I thought to myself, literally holding my breath. There goes my Senate campaign, I could feel it.
Actually… possessed eyes aside, it could be worse. Carry on, Facebook, carry on.
12:14 P.M.
Somehow, I was both simultaneously wasted and hungover. I vowed to never drink again.
Or at least until next Friday night.
12:53 P.M.
After wrapping myself up in a rain jacket cocoon and popping in a few surprisingly effective Target-brand sleeping pills, I managed to briefly power nap. I was still beyond exhausted, and if I had been accompanied by any other person besides Brandon I would’ve already hung myself with my sweater, but he kept me relatively sane.
Another silver lining: he managed to flirt with an airline employee to secure us two seat rows all for ourselves. Super convenient when you have disproportionately long legs like myself. Then Brandon continued to respond to infinite business emails and I ate my fourth croissant.
1:07 P.M.
We finally boarded our flight! Praise Xenu, as Tom Cruise would say. I propped two pillows behind me and outstretched my legs onto the empty seats like the queen I thought I was. Finally, after barely getting any shut-eye for the past 30 hours, I could conk out and hopefully wake up not completely looking like the girl from The Ring. Fingers crossed!
I glanced down. The Coppers stamp – this bright, Shocktart blue design was somehow still completely intact on my wrist and staring defiantly back at me. It served as a deadly reminder that I wasn’t above the chaos. I, too, partied among the boozed-up Neanderthals, with their orgy of slimy slop ‘cocktails,’ asinine Top 40 playlists, and primal grinding on the dancefloor.
Perhaps… perhaps I even enjoyed it?
I poured some water onto my hand and started scrubbing. No one had to know.
Update: Peter, one of our Irish friends, sent me this photo a buddy of his recently took at Coppers. In case you thought I was exaggerating.
The Art of Being Basic 