Ah, smacks o'clock, the
time when otherwise sane young people become agitated with the progression of the night, and head off to a more ebullient nightspot.
During a lull in conversation, someone
will mention how smacks o'clock must be approaching. Nobody knows the exact moment this most undefinable of
time begins. Estimates by renowned scientologists and psychic media (surely the plural of medium) have placed the
time as early as 10pm, but other sources have suggested a
time much closer to midnight. Either way, when the feeling is right, the nebulous idea of a smacks visit enters the minds of the merry band.
Surely, soon we
will be drinking £1 bottles, doing the macarena, requesting naughty
big screen messages and perving over teenage girls. There
will be flashcards aplenty, and injokes galore as the feeling gathers pace.
And then it happens. Suddenly, every glass is empty. We are astanding, moving towards the exit of the pre-smacks drinking establishment, and we are on our way
Another night has begun
Human Being: Let us depart this
shithole, surely it is smacks o'clock
Human Being: Don't be
silly, it's only ten to smacks
Human Being: STFU, I want to request Total Eclipse of the
Heart