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Thursday Night Fright Night

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Contributor:
Samantha Lee
Samantha Lee

Where have all the good Thursdays gone?

Let’s be clear. I am not a hermit.
 
I haven’t been out on a Thursday night in a while, but I’m still young enough to remember that Thursday nights in the city used to rock.
 
Thursday night used to be the quintessential, Almost Friday Night! Night.
The let’s call in hung over, Three Day Weekend, Can’t Go One More Day without Alcohol and Beers Night.
It provides the chance to be astronomically stupid in front of work mates, send inappropriate texts to your boss, call up the ex, break up, make up, dance on tables, tip strippers, chat up the barman, lose important pieces of clothing. It’s that chance to extend the Friday and Saturday night behaviour- start early, take a chance, have a laugh, over-indulge.
 
Ha. Not anymore. I was really looking forward to starting my weekend early last week with a girl’s night out.
We had all the requirements.
Overpriced apartment with fabulous harbour views? Check.
Comparisons to Sex and the City characters? Check.
Smokin’ hot wardrobe and far-too-high heels? Check.
Systematic check and discard of camera and camera phones to eliminate possible incriminating evidence? Check.
Eftpos card, driver’s license, card with name of hotel on it in case of forgetting? Check.
 
We set out to our first two bars near Auckland’s Waterfront, and lo and behold, Thursday night has apparently become the marketing equivalent of Tuesday night Happy Hour.
Thursday is Depressing Music Night.
We went to six bars, three of which had live bands- two of which consisted of melancholy James Blunt type figures crooning about love lost, lost chances, loss of optimism- you name it, they’ve lost it.
The whole mood of the crowd was somber, most patrons staring into their over priced cocktails, trying desperately to remember there is hope in the world.
 
We thought, okay, obviously a sports team has lost something or John Campbell forgot to add Marvelous to every second sentence on his 7pm broadcast, thus depressing the nation.
A decision was made, we upped sticks and went to the biker bar on High Street that isn’t really a biker bar, but has scary décor and slightly intimidating patrons. This did not help.
Everyone there was depressed too, including the distinguished older gentleman with two very young blondes on his arm.
We left. Quickly.
A trip slightly further up High Street followed, to an upstairs bar with a view, although it was so dark in said bar you were practically inappropriately groping people just to find your way around. The lighting may have been bad, but at least the DJ was halfheartedly trying (and major points for his awesome hat). But the people were still quietly morose, and the one candle on the bar was melting rapidly, as were our high expectations and our makeup.
 
Surely, surely, the Viaduct would offer something for a group of girls in search of a good time?
Well, Bar Number Four was slightly more promising- the music at least changed to techno, although that was at our request…because we were the only ones there.
Then we went to a little place tucked away at the back of the Viaduct, which has fish.
This is not an important detail until you have had a few too many Red Bull and Vodkas and you start to realize just how pretty they really are.
The music there was sung by artists not about to end it all and throw themselves off a building, there were some very cute Dutch tourists and one very large drunk Irishman who really should have better manners, but in the spirit of getting himself out of trouble with four women with very high heels, recommended we should go try the Irish bar at the Viaduct entrance. Feeling sheepish and slightly stupid for not checking a site like this one before we’d gone out, we left for Danny Doolans.
 
Jackpot, finally. Fantastic music, cute guys that could speak coherent English, and very good drinks.
So, lesson for a Thursday night? Save yourself a lot of trouble, start with the Irish bars-your Thursday night depression will be cured in no time.

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