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Bristol UK

We spoke to people who go to the Brass Pig every Monday to ask them “why?”

‘I would leave, but the sole of my left shoe has been stuck to the dancefloor for the past three hours.’

When it comes to nocturnal naughtiness, Bristol is inarguably in a league of its own, boasting an alarmingly vast selection of reprobate activity for all manner of seasoned seshers to enjoy. Whether you wish to snuffle a palmful of ritalin out of some old codger’s mitts on the tropical shores of Turbo Island, or to partake in a DMT-induced hula-hooping competition with five green-haired crusties amidst the glowing embers of the Black Swan bonfire, all manner of crack-headery seems to be celebrated. For the most part, it can be understood how each evil endeavour can be relished by those who revel in it – except for one. A night out so depraved that even the keenest of weekend warriors go weak at the knees at its very mention. The Whip chatted with some of its frequenters to find out why, and how, they take pleasure in their pain.

“Well, like, basos, The Brass Pig is, like, bare jokes” exclaimed second year socialite Areola Nîpue-Nôpue.

“And I’m, like, bare baffed as to why people hate it. Like, the playlist absolutely bangs darling. Yah, and they tailor it to your taste. Like, they clearly know that Shape of You is my fav, which is obvs why they’ve played it three times in the past ten minutes. You wouldn’t get that in Lakota – like, where are The Chainsmokers at haha?

“Anyways. I also love the smell. Vomit and lacrosse boy ballsack are two scents that I bare love separately, so when combined it really, like, takes me back to Badock.” Moments later this prodigal daughter was granted her wish, whisked away for a night of disappointment under the spunk-ridden sheets of a Stoke Bishopite.

“I love watching the big tellies with the fit birds on them” chuckled third year Ultimate Frisbee-er Xander Greesee-Curtins. “It’s like Babestation, but free, and sometimes you see your flatmate on it. And that’s all I come here for. Fucking hate the rest of it. I would leave, but the sole of my left shoe has been stuck to the dancefloor for the past three hours, and I’m not about to sacrifice a Yeezy.”

It seemed that ardent Brass-Piggers are more knowledgeable than most in their appreciation of the trashy night out, and more power to them – someone has to advocate for the subculture of the sweaty year six disco. So get out your crimpers and don your freshest flame patterned shirt, for 2020 is the year of the school dance. We’ll be at La Rocca though, nursing a K2, because we’re lads and lasses of class and cultivation.

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