Northern Bird’s Night Out

Having lived up north for most of my married life and bringing up five daughters to be truly Northern Birds there was nothing we used to like better than a good old pub crawling night on the town. Otherwise known as the Northern Birds Night Out, which my sister; who lived down south and had London, with it’s theatres, restaurants and clubs; used to rave about to all her southern friends. 

It generally started as we sat round the table, casually chatting, when some-one would say they fancied a night out. As we continued our gossiping the idea would slowly develop into reality and we would decide that tonight would be the night. Next came the ringing, messaging and FaceTiming to make sure everyone was invited along. Woe betide if the organiser forgot to ask someone or assumed that someone else had; something which has caused many an upset in our household over the years. Once we knew who would be joining our little group of merrymakers we would work out the important details; where we were going, where to meet and at what time. And that was just the beginning.

Probably the most important part of the night is getting ready. This usually started immediately following our decision to go out. As I flitted about the bedroom trying to decide on which outfit to wear I would glance in the mirror and see some harried old hag staring back at me. In that instant I realised there is no way I was going on a night out without dyeing my hair first. Which involved a trip to the shops for the hair dye. Which meant I had to get a wriggle on and get to the shops. A few hours later, after ending up in Meadowhall, with Netti in tow, not only do I have the hair dye but a new dress, shoes, make-up and accessories; all those little things that are so essential to a successful night out. One time it wasn’t for hair dye but to pick up some contact lenses because Netti didn’t want to wear her glasses, without which she’s as blind as a bat.

Back home and trying to get someone to dye my hair was almost impossible since everyone else was also getting ready. Thankfully Paul was able to do the honours. As I was now in such a hurry I would forget to put vaseline around my hairline first so I ended up looking like a Dalmatian dog, with black splodges all over my face and ears. Which meant having to scrub them in an attempt to remove the black dye, so now I had a face-full of red blotches instead. I have found, over the years, that baby wipes are particularly good for this. On one occasion, whilst waiting for the dye to take, I sat having a cuppa and got the black dye all over one of our expensive new dining chairs. Paul was not happy, I can tell you. 

Once the hair was done it was time to decide what I was going to wear. Now, this is one of the hardest parts of the night out, you have to get it just right. There was a time when all you needed was a skimpy top, short denim skirt, black tights and white stiletto heeled shoes but times change and the new staple look of the Northern Bird was, and still is, the chav/trailer-trash hybrid look. You know the one. It starts with the tiny, skin tight dress, usually in some stretchy fabric ensuring that it clings everywhere, and often in white so it becomes see through when stretched, particularly on those women with more curves than sense. This little dress is also so short that it rides up over the bum cheeks revealing the obligatory thong underneath. Which leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Especially when the wearer falls off her impossibly high heels as she tries to negotiate the rough terrain of Barnsley; almost impossible when sober, never mind after several bottles of WKD blue. The other option is the slacks and sparkly top look favoured by some older women, the ones who have never paid heed to fashion or style and will happily wear the same outfit for a meal out down the pub with their family. I have, over the years, worn my fair share of these Northern Bird outfits; a pencil skirt teamed with sparkly corset, that beige Jane Norman frock which clung to every ripple, super tight wriggle dresses and my personal favourite in bad choices, a cheap, stretchy red sheath dress which was so bad I kept my coat on. Once the outfit had been decided on it was time to look at what shoes to wear. It might look nice with my high heels but I always knew I couldn’t walk or last the night in them. And neither did I want to end up flat on my back in the middle of Barnsley showing off my next weeks washing. I usually plumped for starting the night with the heels and taking a pair of flatties for later on. Once the outfit was sorted it was time to get ready. Music blaring and a glass of vodka in hand; obligatory when getting ready for a Northern Birds Night Out; I’d be sat in the bath when Netti would come begging to borrow some this or that. Not to mention Bozzie who as usual couldn’t find anything that looked how she thought it should. And her make-up was going wrong and her hair wouldn’t stay where she wanted it so she was NOT coming. Again. And was I going to hurry up and get out of the bath, we told Suzy we’d be at the bus stop by eight o’clock and it was now a quarter past seven!

Once out of the bath it’s only a matter of moments before I’d be dressed and putting my slap on. Hair done, jewellery on, perfume on, bed cleared so Paul could get in it later and I would  finally be ready. The rest of the room could be tidied the next day. Bozzie would finally stop stomping about and muttering under her breath and sort herself out. Then, as now, she went for the mildly goth look with dark makeup and, back then, very high heeled shoes which she’d only just bought was determined to wear. She made me, Netti and Danii look like midgets! (Can I say that or is it not PC!) Netti arrived in the short denim skirt and skimpy top, finished off with a pair of knee boots and looked more like a 1960s Jane Fonda than Barnsley slapper. The six week girl was back! We were now running late, as usual, so after calling for Danii, dressed in her usual skinny jeans and a top which, more often than not, covers her tattoos, we headed off down to our regular meeting place at the bus stop by what was back then the Co-op. And there is Suzy, dressed down as ever, waiting for us. But no Kate yet. And we’ve already missed the ten past eight bus and to pass the time waiting for Kate and the next bus Netti nips into the Co-op for some ciggies. About fifteen minutes later Kate is dropped off, sporting the aforementioned Northern Bird look and adorned with enough bling she could rival the Blackpool illuminations. We still had a while to wait for the next bus and it was so cold we were creating a fog with our breath and shivering so hard we didn’t need a flabulous machine! Coats? you ask, of course not, don’t be daft, we didn’t need them, we live up north and we’re tough!

After what always seemed to be an interminable journey around numerous less than salubrious council estates, on a cold and grimy bus, we arrived in town and headed for the first pub of the night. By the time we got there it was jam-packed with tipsy, sweating bodies through which we had to slither and slide on our way to the bar. Where the slip of a bargirl in a tight T-shirt completely ignored us. Ten minutes later when she had finished flirting with some sleazy bloke, with a heavy gold chain and an earring, at the other end of the bar, she finally sauntered over to serve us with what tasted like vodka flavoured water. Suzy says the beer wasn’t much better and it was flat. We quickly finished our drinks and headed off to the next place on our route.

The Route was another staple of the Northern Birds Night Out. Every group of Northern Birds had their own route which they have followed religiously since their first outing. Alterations to the route are rare, unless there is very good reason, such as the closure of one of the pubs, or a new place opening its doors. There is no apparent logic to the route either, it has evolved over time and one group will criss cross back and forth through the town, the main objective being to be in the right pub at the right time. If you arrive at an empty pub you’re either too early or too late; it is just not the done thing to be in a pub either before or after the crowd. Oh yes, you might get your drinks quicker but who do you flirt with at an empty bar! And the farther along the route you are, the more erratic your progress becomes. Amanda never quite got her head round the Northern Birds Night Out rule. One drink per pub and move on, not sit down and have several in the same bar. Our route was fairly straight forward and didn’t involve any backtracking as a rule and over the  years got shorter as we began to bypass places like the one which used to play a good selection of soft rock and cheesy power ballads but had changed to a mish-mash of thrash which doesn’t quite hit the spot for the Friday/Saturday night out crowd. The last time we went in the place it was nearly empty, mainly populated by older blokes in their leather jackets and designer scruffy jeans, trying to be twenty again, and middle aged, overweight, wannabe rock chicks in their topless, bottomless, sideless clothes, designed to show off their latest badly done tattoos. But you still needed to walk up that way to get your stickers for either a free drink or free entry into the nightclub.

It was usually about five bars in; I would have supped at least six vodka laced drinks, several of which will have been doubles; that things would start to degenerate. I am frequently told, and I am well aware, it is at this point I get argumentative and, sometimes, downright nasty. On one such night I was in danger of breaking both my ankles as I stumbled over cobbles and into potholes doing the Northern Bird Hobble in a pair of ridiculously high heels which, by then, were really hurting my feet. So, as we were walking between bars, I took my shoes off, as you do, to be told off by one of the girls. She pointed out that there were police standing all along the road and that I should put my shoes back on as walking barefoot wasn’t allowed round the town. Red rag to a bull? I should say so. I started ranting about my human right to make choices and if I wanted to go barefoot and cut my feet there was nothing they could do about it. And the more the girls tried to quieten me down, the worse I got.  It was at the point where I started pulling faces, oinking and shouting piggy, piggy at the police all of them, except Netti, walked away and left me standing alone, like an idiot, in the middle of the road, in the pouring rain, still pulling faces. Eventually I put my shoes back on and slunk off to the next bar with Netti, still muttering about my right to cut my feet. And the worse thing about this story is that one of the first things I ever drilled in to the girls when they started going out was “never, ever take your shoes off”. The other thing was “always keep hold of your drink and always keep it covered” but that’s another story.

On another occasion we were standing near the entrance of one of our regular stops; right next to the disabled loo, which we all took advantage of as it was quicker than going upstairs; waiting for everyone to catch up when someone must have said something which set me off. I had had a few by this time and, as I said before, everyone knows it doesn’t take much to set me off. I stormed out of the bar in a huff and said I’d see them all in the nightclub later.

Bozzie followed me out and told me not to be so childish. I was still resisting when she spotted that the next bar was empty and dragged me in and we had a sneaky drink before heading back to the last bar, as it had better music. When Amanda found out what we had done she wanted to go for a sneaky extra drink so I took her up  and when she offered me a sip of her drink I downed the lot, much to her disgust. Well I thought she’d had enough and couldn’t drink it fast enough! 

Some nights, however, I would manage with only a couple of minor spats before, armed with our stickers, we headed to the nightclub where we liked to end our nights. We usually aimed to get there early so our stickers were still valid for free entry, and before the crowds, so we could secure an alcove where we could have our own private party or leave our handbags with whoever was not dancing, usually Suzy. On one night out, to celebrate Suzy’s birthday, whilst we were all dancing, she got talking to a guy from Scotland. She couldn’t understand a word he said but kept smiling and nodding her head so he kept buying her drinks. She was so drunk by the time we went home that she fell over a two foot high bollard outside the club and later, as she was being dropped off at home, fell out of the car, crawled into the house and she spent the rest of night prowling around in just a coat!

The nightclub we used to frequent usually played quite cheesy music until late so by midnight it got pretty full. The crowded dance-floor was so sticky with spilled drinks that the best you could manage was to wiggle your bum and flail your arms about, loosely in time to the music; a form of dance which my sister has expertly perfected over the years. This is fine until some ungainly bloke forgets he’s stuck to the floor, tries to move his feet, overbalances and hurtles into everyone, scattering them like skittles. Or, like Bozzie when someone had spilt a drink which had dripped onto the barstool, mine as it happened, so she was trying to pull up a dry stool when she slipped, fell backwards and landed on her back with her legs in the air, right in front of the DJ box in true Drunken Northern Bird style. Her shoe flew off, did a graceful arc and landed on the table in the middle of several full bottles and glasses of drinks without disturbing any of them. I don’t know how given the size and weight of the shoe! And at least she wasn’t wearing a thong!!

Around one o’clock  when he music got a bit too clubby boredom would begin to set in and I would start to sober up; apart from the first free drink, I never drink  alcohol in a nightclub, it is too expensive and doesn’t mix well with dancing; and I would be ready to go home. At this point Kate usually phoned home for a lift, with Danii and Suzy cadging a ride as well, leaving the rest of us; usually Netti and I, sometimes Bozzie; to find our own way home. So we head off for the obligatory visit to the kebab shop for a greasy kebab and a tray of cheesy chips, which are devoured whilst waiting at the taxi rank and enjoying that end of night banter and camaraderie with the other revellers in the queue. That is the ONLY way to end a Northern Birds Night Out.