You celebrated Thursday too much and now not even Berocca can save your dirty little soul. Having made it into work via a quick detour for a Lucozade you whip your headphones in and search “peaceful soul” on Spotify. You pray.
Before you realise it the clock reads 2pm. Off to Mash for some lunch time levellers.
“Mate I feel like shit, work is long.”
A trusty Motown playlist gets you through the afternoon as you count the hours down to the untapped, glorious freedom of the weekend.
“Yeah, only one though, went a bit hard last night.”
One becomes two, two becomes three, three becomes a text and you’re back in the game. You whip round the centre of town and hit all the classics: Red Stripe round at Western, hustle and bustle at Lion, Mojitos at Mez? Yeah go on.
You’re with your pals but the crowd is all a bit ‘Estate agents with no socks’ for your liking. The group deliberates until inevitably one of you utters the most beautiful of all words, two glorious syllables of pure joy, a call to arms for the damned.
The night is saved. You bundle down Middle Street and smile at the bouncer as you trip over the door.
You’re greeted by the sound of laughter over bangers and the muffled thumps of Green Day downstairs. You recognise faces, you shake hands, you get the rounds in and you party the night away surrounded by friends both old and new.
Sticky Mike’s Frog Bar was home for the lost souls of Brighton. It was a refuge for those that never felt like they really worked anywhere else.
Sticky Mike’s was the absolute fucking best.