It all starts with a simple question, “shall we have a gaff?”

The ball starts rolling, not much planning is needed. Just a date, invites, and sourcing the decks. The DJ sets the tone for the party, will it be house, DNB, techno? Jungle was ultimately the chosen vibe for this little house warming party. 

After all the planning, cleaning the flat, checking with the neighbours, the day finally arrives. Some of the troops gather early at the pub in preparation for the night ahead, nothing too crazy at this hour. Just a few pints.

The clock strikes 8, a copious amount of rum mixes with coke, some remain on the now warm beers, whereas others are on the local corner shops finest bottle of £4 wine. The tunes are on, card games unfold, these hours set the tone for the night.

The night’s perking up now. People are moving, dancing to the music. Then there’s a knock at the door. The guests are here, a big group of people who’ve experienced the same night up to this point as you, just in a different location. Hugs are shared, shots are poured, the group is finally together and ready for the night. 

Everyone’s in a party mood now, there’s people spread throughout the flat, getting to know people they haven’t spoken to before, but there is growing concern: where is the DJ? The soul of the party has yet to arrive. Questions are being asked. Where is he? What time is he starting? Just as we start to think he’s bottled it, there’s a knock at the door, the man we’ve been waiting for. We take the decks, get it all set up, look at the set list, pour our man a drink. He’s ready for his time. This party is about to go off.

Here we go. This party is in full swing. The DJ’s on, the drinks are flowing, and everyone is in their own world of enjoyment; a final blowout before we all get too serious. This is the perfect welcome to our flat and to the  new academic year. There’s a crowd forming around the decks, everyone’s interested in what’s going on, this is the beating heart of the party right now. We’re all proud of our boy behind the decks.

His set eventually ends, a sign that the night is nearing its end. More and more people move onto water, words are slurred, and the Uber drivers of Glasgow are preparing. People slowly fade away, many Irish goodbyes – not out of rudeness, they’ve just taken it too far. It happens to the best of us. The smoking area begins to fill, with others needing fresh air. 

As people flock back to their own houses, only the strong remain. The deep, philosophical conversations begin. It’s the part of the night where the house party has evolved into an afters. You find out a lot about a person at this hour: what they listen to, what their political beliefs are, who they really are without their group as cover. With the help of alcohol true friendships and multiple plans are made, will you ever attend? Only time will tell.

The party is officially over. People are passing out wherever they land. The hosts don’t care at this point, they’ve been successful in ensuring everyone had a good night. This changes in the morning, waking up to find people asleep on the floor, bottles all over the place and a sticky floor. The flat has turned into a nightclub. However, they clear up what they can, sweep up who they can, and ignore this state, until the following morn when energy levels are restored and heads are less sore.

The only way to end the weekend and recover is to go where it all began, the pub.