If one were to watch any American movie from the ‘90s - great as they are - they’d present to you a distorted reality of what takes place come Saturday night for the teenage community. They’d show you that the guy (or gal) you really fancy ended up turning up before the police came to shut it down, and didn’t care that you were a drunken mess. They’d show you that you had a great night and ended the night with a joyride in his dad’s car and the clichéd front-doorstep-kiss, which has been featured in pretty much every teen movie. What they won’t show you is the hangover that you’ll wake up to, the degree of self-loathing and the sensation of both your stomach and jaw dropping to the floor in dismay and fear as you’re tagged in 10 photos on Facebook. The morning after the night before always feels as though you’ve been awoken from the dark ages to enter the renaissance yet when you make the brave, and foolish, attempt to slide yourself up in bed... BAM, your hangover hits you like a brick wall. Suddenly the beauty of the rebirth is absent and the only art you’re attempting to make is painted with your vomit and is hitting the toilet bowl in a terribly violent way.

In a vain attempt you then embark upon the ritual of reversing the effect of binge drinking and depriving oneself of sleep. Without sounding like a self help book, one must first start with your literal self - it’s essential to burn all clothes, due to the lingering scent of marijuana and cigarette smoke that will otherwise be present for the next week or so. Next there’s the cleansing of the head, this step is simple - aspirin and coffee should do the job and carbs. Lots of carbs. Now you’re a self-confessed mess and on your road to recovery, you must repent for your sins for the sake of your soul (and dignity). This may include anything from de-tagging photos of you making a fool of yourself to ignoring texts from the person who you already regret giving your number to and accepting hours of free counseling over the phone from your best friend (along with any gossip you may have ceased to witness) about your mistakes.

However there’s always a catch, the (metaphorical) clock must strike midnight and no teenage night out passes without at least one (or seven) mishaps taking place. These can range in scale from the minor - a classic is the loss of a bag/ oyster/ make-up collection (alas, in the eyes of a narcissistic teenage girl the latter would enevitably lead to a empty state of being) - to the major; for example, the lad who cannot contain his new found freedom, independence (and urine) and ends up arrested for peeing in a bush (shoutout to my friend Sam for doing so). There’s also the comical, for example I once witnessed a girl in floods of tears over someone commiting the sinful act of getting mud on her new white shoes, at a party, in a field – surely the inevitable consequence to anyone with more than two brain cells. There’s a proverb that I hold close to my heart which states that it’s not a party until 1) someone is rolling blissfully in their own vomit, 2) a girl is crying for no apparent reason, 3) the iPod system has been hijacked, 4) someone gets arrested/ grounded/ sent to the gulag for life by their parents.

Amazingly, despite the sanctions many teenagers grow to know as a ritual so familiar it’s almost a given every week, some get off lightly. A friend of mine threw a party, in honor of her birthday a few weeks back whilst her parents were out of the country and miraculously managed to hide the fact it had ever happened. This perplexed me as hours before 90 North West London teenagers had been strolling the halls of the house - vomiting god knows where and doing god knows what with god knows who. All I know is that the next morning the hoover, vanish and paracetamol were out and these hungover kids took the house on in their pack and attacked it. The finished product could have put a middle aged OCD mother to shame. I’d like to congratulate said friend on passing off a brown patch, which contained the lining of two of my friends stomachs, as a diet coke stain. Unfortunately, as noted earlier, there are always mishaps and this one appeared in a plastic bottle (ironically one sold by our school cantine). However it held no genie granting three wishes, only the remnants of a bottle of cheap Red vino someone had nicked off their parents. How she got out of that one I do not know, and that leads me to one of the fundamental issues that come alongside teenage parties.

Despite all the fun and games that teenage parties hold, there has to be a hypothetical ‘designated driver’. Thankfully, as most of us cannot drive, you lot have been granted a lucky escape but it’s vital for our sakes that we all have a friend who vouches not to drink to oblivion (or does, and is just immensely talented) and is willing to rub their friends back and hold their carefully GHD-d hair whilst they chunder their woes away. My best friend, Lauren, is my go-to when it comes to this. Week in week out, I end up either crying on her or going to her for philosophical advice whilst she’s trying to sleep at 3am having got home from said party. The world needs Laurens to keep on surviving and after my experience, I learnt how hard it is to be such a Samaritan. A few weeks ago, friend X had a little too much tipple and ended up slumped on my friend’s bathroom floor. He started to turn an alarming shade of green, his eyes started to roll back into their sockets and when he couldn’t articulate his differing opinions on Brie and Camembert, I assumed my position and for some reason, sat on him awaiting the storm that was to come. After a good 20 min puking session, I started to feel alarmed as I remembered the stats of teens who die from binge drinking (2004-09 there were 23,347 teen girls admitted and 18,159 boys). This reminded me of the serious, and frequently overlooked, threat of choking on one’s own vomit. Alas, I clutched friend X by the armpits and dragged him across the kitchen at which point friend Y piped up saying she knew first aid (and life guardian, in case anyone drowned in their vomit). Et voila! 5 mins later with the assistance of some of the ‘lads’ we had got friend X onto the sofa and into the recovery position. With the use of a wet flannel (I saw someone request one on Call the Midwife) and despite him not being in labour my drunken self would bequeath no friend of a wet flannel in a time of need. Thankfully friend X’s brother picked him up and he was returned to bed safe and sound but sadly, this is not always the case.

So I urge you, however much this sense of euphoria may please you, bear in mind that the consequence may be fatal and don’t play Russian Roulette with the vodka.