Brannies biggest rival. Or not?

It is common knowledge to any journalist writing an opinion piece, that in order to write a fair and balanced article you should not be bias; so admittedly have already kicked myself in the head on this particular subject.

I have been a student in Chester for almost three years now and being a regular Wednesday girl, the closing down of Brannigans back in January left more than a little tear in my eye.

Brannigans always was the life and soul of Chester student nights and although you got stuck to the floor, lost limbs trying to get served and always returned home resembling something that had been dragged through a bush backwards, there was little not to love about it.

In short the ‘student night’ set to replace it would have a lot to live up to.

Sure enough a few weeks’ later rumours began to fly of an alternative to Chester’s much beloved Brannigans, a club in Ellesmere Port called Destiny and Elite (it is known to the locals as desperate and easy. Not the most promising start.)

It was originally arranged by Chris Davies, a previous manager of the Su bar and a few other well known names and costing £5 a ticket, it got you a coach fare to and from the club, as well as entry into the club itself. Add in all drinks priced at 99p and you shouldn’t be far off student heaven.

So on Wednesday the 14th of April with my housemates in tow, I went to Destiny and Elite, keeping an open mind and preparing to be swayed into my beliefs on Chester’s hottest student night club.

As the clock struck nine we put on our heels and headed into town for a few pre-drinks before out night of ‘research’ began.

Having been told that the buses leave from two points in town, one being out side the town hall and the other outside Revs, we ventured down to Revs to have a few cheeky drinks before hopping on the next bus ride to Destiny.

Now, in hindsight this should seem like a simple idea. You go to a bar, have a drink and relax, while you wait for your bus to take you to your desired destination- perhaps Arriva should take this idea into consideration?

This was probably the first, shall we say, hiccup.

Glancing over at the bus stop for some idea of bus times, we noticed a group of students pile out the door. That was our first sign that a bus was here.

We then flew to the door ready to clamber on the bus. What followed next was a doorman turning round saying the bus was full and we needed to wait another 15 minutes for the next one.

This seemed a tad disorganised but it was no disaster. It simply meant time for one more drink, jump on the next one and go to the club. The only slight issue with the commotion was some unfortunate girl had done a spectacular 360 degree fall outside and we were now minus two housemates who had managed to barge their way on the previous bus.

Anyway, 15 minutes rolled by and we left the bar, and headed over the road to the bus stop. Then 45 minutes passed and we were still standing in the same spot and still waiting for the bus. Baring in mind the dawn of Thursday the 15th was not far off, the temperature outside was fluctuating between 10 degrees and minus one and a queue of 40 odd students behind us, the atmosphere of night had dropped well below freezing.

Being the right-old-age of 21 I refuse to moan and groan over something as small as a 45 minute wait for a bus, but if first impressions were anything to go by this night still had a lot to prove.

Two buses run to Destiny every 20 minutes, so why were we left standing in the cold for over three quarters of an hour? This would never happen at Brannies, you could walk straight in and were lucky if you had to queue for more than 15 minutes.

Eventually the bus arrived and instead of filing on like the respectable students that we are, we were vultures in for the kill. Never before has a stiletto heel had so many advantages.

We found the nearest seats and like school kids suddenly became possessive of our space and began scouting out the male talent. All that was missing was school ties around our necks, lollipops in our mouths and random shoes being thrown down the coach.

There was the chanting, the laughing and even the girls at the front of the bus smoking. It really felt like we had stepped back six years and vey little had changed.

I had heard so many good reports about this place; it was supposedly double the size of Brannies, better, cheaper and a guaranteed ‘quality night out.’ So far I was just pleased we didn’t have to queue to get inside.

Once inside little did I know my heart was about to die again. Not only had the bus journey there been the epitome of home grown sprouts, but the whole club appeared to have been decorated by a blind primary school kid. I had been to more exciting year five discos.

On the plus side there was a lot of room to dance, which is great seeing as their drinks prices are so low that everyone needs an arms width of space to dance (think drunk Uncle at a wedding.)

After a few hours of strenuous dancing we decided to head home, only forgetting that this requires getting yet another bus home and the accompanying thought that my bed was still 30 minutes away, a painful thought compared to the 10 minutes speed walk it used to be from Brannigans.

When the coach pulled into Parkgate road I could finally see the light. Whether or not if was actually the gleaming reflection of the recently placed sick on the bus floor shinning off the moon is another story. Either way, my bed had never felt so good and my feet had never been so grateful to be rested.

It would be wrong to say the night was a disaster, because every element of Destiny and Elite is student orientated; it was encouraged, planned and created by Chester students.

You get the impression with a bit more time and organisation this really can be a huge success and could be a Wednesday night that could easily rival those Brannigans days.

To say neither I nor my housemates will never go again is untrue, but for the time being Branniagns (RIP) will always be the best student night in Chester.

Men: The rational creature.

I always seem gutted when the ‘other sex’ does what they think is best, generally the overall outcome is a guaranteed mood dropper, followed by a viscous attack on a tub of Ben and Jerry’s.

However, it has the estranged ability to make a woman wonder if there is enough space in their testicles for a brain and whether god intended them to have the function of the central nervous system in the first place?

No woman should ever become a ‘man hating’ machine, or swear never to go near them again, because in short, we need them (generalization or not) and if you can’t wake up with your head on the rugby captains chest now, when can you?

I am not suggesting you immediately sprint to the nearest womanizer on campus (please note not all rugby captains are like this and no rugby players were hurt in the writing of this blog) and seduce him till he sleeps.

Anyway here is the context…the end of uni is on the horizon and the only thing separating you from a Las Vegas wedding and real life is a pot noodle and four episodes of Come Dine With Me.

So do you A. Keep ploughing along with your perspective date or B. Throw in the towel?
Both have their own advantages and both will have you searching for ideas at the bottom of your trusty ‘Chunky Monkey.’

It is a tricky set of crossroads, where and let’s face it, denial seems like a fitting path. But is there a right choice?

Put one man in a room and he will try to solve the problem; put three men in a room and they will achieve a convincing resemblance of three monkeys and a banana! Leaving you wondering if the Neanderthal man of today has swapped stone tools and fire, for PHDs and male bonding time.

Either way, perhaps it is safe to say, that the art of rational thinking is not for the faint hearted.

A womans secret

So today I had to make one of the biggest decisions of the month and seeing as we’re only on the 6th of April it seems next month has a lot to live up to. Either way the panic was as followed: what colour to dye me hair?

Now this may seem like a highly irrelevant and typically female thing to say, but in a world full of deadlines and pressure, taking three hours out to have a haircut is possibly one of the most rewarding things a woman can do. In short it can elevate life as a whole, or leave you very bald.

For some reason, aside the fact that my decision making skills are rubbish at the best of times, the dilemma was my head saying make me blonde and my brain saying make me brown. So after some strenuous hair colour samples we (my extremely talented hair dresser and i) went for something inbetween.

Now why my brain and my head couldn’t coordinate together and come up with that solution is beyond me, but nevertheless I spent three hours sitting in a shop, rapidly losing feeling in my butt, getting high off the colour solution and resembling a very realistic plastic palm tree.

The most heartfelt moment was having to cut a few inches off the ends to make up for the abuse my GHD’s had created, and when you are trying to grow hair that grows on a scale of an inch every four months, it is not a nice experience to see it all surrounding your feet.

Guys that is the equivalent of trying to grow a beard because you think it looks good and (after months of odd looks from various family members) you get some form of spot, or facial fungal infection and have to shave the whole thing off.

But it was not all doom and gloom, whilst I was being yanked, dyed and plasticated, there were two other women also in the same shop. Now you have to bear in mind this hairdressers is quite small, friendly, family appealing and was at the time only occupied by women; so what better conversation for them to strike up than childbirth.

Now… being a courageous future journalist (*cough), woman of the world, stiletto wearing, recently blonde-ish, man-eater; childbirth is the LAST thing I want to hear about.

In short, one night of incredibly hot sex is followed by nine months of a see food diet, acceptance that your boobs are going to double in size and then the eventual popping out of a miniature version of you. That is how it goes and until the fortunate time such an occasion has to take place the subject is dropped.

So that was the end to a productive day of dissertation work, that left me begging for my innocence and wanting to pull together the collection of hair on the floor and run off.

Suddenly I felt less inclined to discuss anything remotely graphic with one of my friends, who as fate would have it, is expecting the arrival of her little girl within the fortnight. I know nature is a wonderful thing, but could quite happily settle for another dissertation rather than having to hear about the workings of a womans womb!

Right, now back to the hard stuff…