Brunch, Booze, Bingo, Bed

In the 1990's, my Saturday nights started off with watching the Brookside omnibus at 5:05pm on Channel 4, then dinner in front of Blind Date, before getting ready to then wait for my friends to pull up in a taxi at 7:30pm.  I'd step in, climatise to the driver's questionable dance music compilation tape and then ask if I could smoke in the car.  Then we were on the main road into town and the next stage of the night had begun, which often ended in the early hours of Sunday morning with a snog and a portion of takeaway chips. 

Fast forward to the 2020's and the scales have tipped, and night has become day.

I can't be the only one that finds daytime drinking rather indulgent and dare I say clandestine in some ways, there is almost that holiday feel about it and well, to hell with it, it's 5 o'clock somewhere, so why not?  It is a little weird to put on my party dress at 10am straight after breakfast, but truthfully, I love this cultural reversal and this new style of going out suits me in my 50's era.

So this is how it usually goes with myself and my gaggle of gal-pals on our daytime adventures:

In lieu of our normal elevenses of a cappuccino or a smoothie, we are given prosecco at our bottomless brunch venue, which can vary in quality.  If you're lucky, it is nice, but equally, you can end up with the stuff that makes your nostrils flare, repeatedly belch and makes you wish you'd packed Gaviscon in your bag.  The clock starts ticking and we need to maximise this window of opportunity.  One of my friends exercises what she calls 'the system', which is ensuring you strategically place yourself where your bottle will be replenished in an instant of you shaking your ice bucket and giving a knowing wink to the bar tender.  Trust me, 'the system' works........  

But in many respects, the prosecco is incidental, it's about being with your friends and making the most of that 1.5 hour timeslot you have there, singing Bonnie Tyler classics with drag queens and taking selfies with fake foliage and neon slogan signs, ahead of dumping them all on Instagram to show everyone that you've been 'out-out'.

As an alternative to brunch or indeed if we still have fuel in the tank after our morning session, Bongo's Bingo beckons.  (Other similar bingo brand variations are available).  In Birmingham, anyway, it is held in an old gig venue which has seen better days, the toilets are as they were in c.1993 and the floor is still as sticky.  Nice.  However, so what, who cares - they never said it would be The Savoy.  And it isn't.   We're not there to experience opulence, we are there for friendship and fun. 

In previous visits, we've stood outside and done a rollcall of ailments so that we know each others' limitations - you know the kind of thing, old foot injuries, knee problems, sciatica etc.   I'll admit I've even done calf stretching before leaving the house as I know what is involved once you get inside.   It has also been known that I've turned up smelling of a heady mix of Mugler perfume and Voltarol gel.   Prevention is better than cure.

Inside, the demographic is a cross-generational melting pot who embrace bierkeller vibes and the essential dancing on long benches to anything from rave music to B*witched, it is intense (hence the need for Voltarol).  And who can resist the bingo prizes on offer such as inflatable unicorns or a cardboard cut-out of Cillian Murphy that you want to win so badly so that you can feel the glory of victory, but have no idea what you'd do with it once you walk out of there into the cold light of day.  Basically, it is 3 hours of hilarity, dancing and screaming.   Pure carnage.   But on a serious note, I pity the cleaners.

By late afternoon, we're done.  There is a realisation that we are no longer 21 years old.  But that's okay.  I kiss my friends goodbye, climb into the taxi, (without the questionable dance music tape and I don't smoke anymore so a quieter, nicotine free journey for me compared to the 1990's).  I fling my head back on the headrest, close my eyes, and wish I had worn different shoes as my toes are throbbing.  

There is a smug satisfaction that by sensible o'clock (7pm) I am in my onesie with a takeaway on my lap, Netflix blaring away in the background.    I've been out, seen my friends, had a great time, if I play my cards right and drink enough water, I won't have a hangover and I'll get a full night's sleep too.   This is the way to do it.  Saying that, I couldn't do it every week - good God no way, this is an every now and again thing, but when done, it scratches the itch of wanting to let loose, but on your terms.  

So you can see why now in the 2020's, we're all swapping Saturday night fever for Saturday daytime brunch, booze, bingo, bed.  Our lives, our energy levels, our commitments are different to the heady years of the 1990's and therefore we've adapted how we go out so it fits to suit, and the hospitality trade have responded accordingly, with Adult Daytime Disco events and the like popping up in every city, every week, for us mid-life people - it's big business.   It's calmer, practical, age-appropriate and the music is always on-point - it's perfect.   And if we're lucky winners, we get to share a taxi home with a Cillian Murphy cut-out!