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Ohannes

Adventures of a narcoleptic in Nottingham

6 October 08 words: Cathy Adams
"Name a place in Nottingham and I guarantee I’ve kipped in it. Dogma? Underneath the stairwell. Ocean? Behind the sofas"
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My narcoleptic low point had to come in June at Stealth, where for my mate’s birthday we’d gone out on the lash. After enthusiastically chowing down on two plates of someone else’s leftover cheesy chips, my inevitable sleepy side took over and me and two girlfriends ended up slumped over each other in a homoerotic way worthy of an FHM shoot. Mouth wide open, legs splayed; I felt as free as a bee. I actually thought we were still having a lovely time until my friend (who was working there) paid the bouncer to lock me in the disabled toilet until he was ready to leave. Waking up with piss on your leg is always the best way to end the night.

As a typical student miscreant, I spend most of my day drinking, eating takeaway sand sleeping, with the occasional bout of watching e4 on demand. Basically high-rate demanding stuff,  you will agree.. Recently my friends have taken it upon themselves to call me Cathy ‘Narco’ Adams, due to my inability to stay awake when leaving the house after dark. When asked about my apparent problem, they sigh with resignation, “Oh, she does burn the candle at both ends.” The candle being the telly and the ends being Doing. Absolutely. Nothing.

The adventures of a nightime narco on a night out are often varied and amusing, but more often fucking annoying for my friends. I’ll start off hyper - giddy, almost - then after a tequila shot and a VK apple I’m catching my forty winks in the corner, most often with the grumpy bark of “do you know how many hours students have to work a week?” Not that many it seems, as everybody else can stay awake past 8pm.

One memorable night in Gatecrasher, with the lights on full epileptic fit-power and they’re playing some repetitive dance, I found myself being dragged out by the bouncer at 2am with toilet roll stuck to my forehead. “What?” I ask the bouncer. “The last thing I remember is having a wee!” When asked by my bemused friends all night, I kept up the pretence of “Ooh, I’ve been having a drink with some bloke.” Usually I find this excuse justifies the slightly dazed, eyes-rolled-back-in-head state I often appear to be sporting in.

The crappy thing about being a narco is the way it suddenly hits you. I’ve taken to bringing out sunglasses on every night out now: it all becomes clear at 10.30pm. My eyelids start to droop, but the sunglasses are there covering my red, weeping, tired eyes. Yes, I am still dancing hardcore, and yes I appear to still be awake - but i'm actually sleepdancing! You get an hour’s extra kip and your street cred remains intact!

Name a place in Nottingham and I guarantee I’ve kipped in it. Dogma? Downstairs underneath the stairwell. Ocean? Behind the sofas next to the toilets upstairs. Blueprint? I am usually am so hammered that I don’t bother with the pretence and just lay my head on the floor. I don’t discriminate, but usually the darker the place, the better.

The truth is that although during the last Detonate at Stealth, I mainly saw the inside of my eyelids - I still had a great night. What can I say? The body wants what it wants. And nothing can really beat that fresh feeling when you wake up in the morning…

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