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Wednesday night transports all of York's multitudinous sports teams to the Shangri-La of club nights. It's the only night of the week where a tropical VK tastes like proverbial ambrosia, Mr Oki's chips could easily be mistaken for Manna, and fancy dress obscures everyone's true identity until it's too late. Anyone in search of seven minutes in heaven, twelve hours of drunken bliss, or even something to tell the grandchildren, will not be disappointed. But be warned: not all that glitters is gold. Unless you want herpes, a reputation, or some serious emotional baggage, do not take any of the following fancy-dress nightmares home.
The Slutty Cat
With only an LBD, tights (if you're lucky) and a minimal amount of eye-liner contributing to this hassle-free costume, it appears to be a winner for the unwitting shark: easily rectifiable with only a baby-wipe, and a virtually undetectable W.O.S (walk of shame). But look out for tell-tale signs of a fancy-dress fraudster... Does Slutty Cat only appear to have only one or two friends? Is there a lack of enough smutty kitties in the venue to constitute a sports team? Yes to both of the above? I hate to break it to you: Slut Cat is a glory hunter - she doesn't even play sport. Slutty Cat is only here for the boys. She can't understand the sports team camaraderie but still thinks she's entitled to just as much fun. Undeserving of attention from you.
The One Dressed in Cardboard
Whilst that cardboard hat/Clifton Suspension Bridge/Ice-cream van/Batmobile/intricate explanation board of Phythagoras' Theorum may display an unbridled talent and passion for creativity, that bloke/chick hogging the dancefloor with their cardboard masterpiece should be avoided at all costs. The extravagance may look like a proud and confident gesture, but this could not be further from the truth; the cardboard is actually a glass cage of insecurity, subconsciously designed to keep anyone, even you (nice as you are), out. But should their inhibitions be released by an inordinate amount of alcohol - and they wind up in your bedroom shedding flakes of cardboard sadness all over your freshly hoovered floor - expect tears and a lifetime of emotional baggage. "Did he break up with me because I'm too fat?" *sob* "Do you think I'm fat?". No, I don't even know your name. Please leave.
A Suit ('n' Tie)
There is an old saying in York: "the only way to make yourself less cool than you already are is to get off with a rugby player". Not catchy, but probably true. It's a little known fact that all blokes dressed in suits on sports social night are actually cyborgs (half man, half machine). The cyborg's primary aim is to download your personal details (name, age, height, cup size, preferred position) and then upload them to a "shared file" within the clubs central system where they can be accessed by all club members, at any time. And if the prospect of having your intimate details spread round an entire club doesn't put you off, cyborgs are not known for their flamboyant personality. Leave them in the club, awaiting orders from the general-cyborg.
This man is so comfortable with his sexuality that he has no qualms donning less underwear, and about as many clothes as Katie Price. If you should accidentally stumble upon a collection of these creatures you can expect more grinding than an Expobar Markus Plus 2 Angle Grinder, and as much general slag as a Blast Furnace churns out in a week. In fact, they are so aggressively heterosexual they would rather play hard to get by getting off with each other than look at you. But should their eyes stray in your direction, flee for the hills - they will only bring you heartache and nudity.
Go forth, freshers. And don't say I didn't warn you...