“The party friend is the human-apparition rebuttal to every smug auntie at the dinner table who insists that 'you people just don't go out like we used to'. Well, auntie, let me stop you right there. Have you met my friend Nathan, whom I first encountered in a smokers and continue to encounter in smokers at 1am every weekend?”
Wading through the endless dialogue surrounding Gen Z today, it can often feel as though we are a generation of socially inept, house-buying-averse, smartwatch-wearing individuals who take iced coffees to job interviews, yet simultaneously refuse to work. We have been celebrated for our digital savviness, but, ironically, it is this very same digital fluency that is thought to be making us lonelier, more validation-seeking and more socially disconnected than any generation before us. Being a member of Gen Z can sometimes feel like being the party guest everyone is fascinated to see turn up, only to be ridiculed and made to look a fool the moment you actually arrive. One of the biggest criticisms levelled at our generation in recent years is that we simply don't go out and party like we used to. The 1980s saw the explosion of acid house, which transitioned into the 1990s and the rise of illegal outdoor raves, eventually giving birth to the commercial clubbing spaces we know and love today. Ministry of Sound, anyone? The hedonism of 1990s nightlife is often spoken about as though it belongs to some mythical, long-lost era, a time when people wouldn't even consider going out until 2am, clubs were pillars of social identity, and a night out could quite easily turn into a three-day affair. There is an undeniable nostalgia attached to this period, when freedom and hedonism ran rampant for days on end, and the prospect of the back of your head in an stuffy club ending up on someone's Instagram story as they capture the DJ at the front, was thankfully, non-existent. Attitudes towards clubbing have undoubtedly shifted. With 74% of Gen Z reportedly choosing to stay home for at least half of their weekends each month, and 51% saying they feel lonely on a typical weekend, the picture painted is hardly one of a generation living it up. It's a particularly sobering prospect when you consider that social media feeds would have us believe we are busier, more sociable and more in demand than ever.
Gen Z are also frequently met with the unsolicited observation that 'it's not the same as it was back then' from older family members whenever conversations turn to housing, clubbing, employment or, quite frankly, the general business of being a young person alive today. It is the verbal equivalent of someone smugly recounting the happenings of a party they know you were never invited to in the first place, their self-satisfaction practically dripping with some strange form of generational bragging rights. But despite this increasingly party-less, stay-at-home image of modern youth, there is one figure who has managed to withstand the test of clubbing time. Someone who has remained centre stage on the dance floor throughout the decades, busting out moves to Elton John, then Kylie Minogue, and now Charli XCX. This figure is the going-out friend, otherwise known as the party friend.
They are the person you can always rely on to be out. You might arrange to meet them before the night begins, but more often than not, they simply materialise out of thin air, slotting themselves into your dancing circle like a greasy 2p coin into a casino slot machine. Feel like your group isn't quite big enough for the club? Have no fear. The party friend will somehow make up the numbers using an assortment of randoms they've accumulated along the party circuit. The precise mechanics of how the party friend arrives are a matter of ancient myth. Their entrance might take the form of an unexpected grab from behind, prompting a brief moment of panic as you wonder whether you're being accosted, only to turn around and be greeted by the big, gleaming, reassuring, if slightly alcohol-addled, smile of the party friend you knew you would bump into at some point in the evening.
The curious thing about the party friend is that, despite seeing them with remarkable frequency on a night out, you know surprisingly little about their actual existence. Their daytime presence is practically a matter of myth, the Odyssey kind. As just how Odysseus turned up announced back in Ithaca after twenty years of his existence remaining a mystery, the party friend turns up unannounced in the Sparta-equiavalent of some shitty club in Dalston with their existence evoking mystery. You don't know what they do for work, yet you know they get by as how else would they be able to take their partying so seriously? There is an unspoken assumption that yours is merely their final stop of the evening, and you are likely to catch a passing reference to a bar in Vauxhall they visited earlier, followed by another in Elephant and Castle, before somehow finding themselves here with you. And yet, you feel rather flattered to know the party friend. Their presence brings with it a certain social currency that include open arms at the entrance, queue-jumping privileges courtesy of bouncers they appear to know as though they were close family members, and complimentary drinks from bartenders who treat them like the final destination on a well-worn loyalty card that has been stamped countless times over. They are a nightlife institution in their own right that has earned their right to claim the dance floor as their homeland.
The thing about the party friend is that you cannot simply decide to become one. You cannot manufacture that level of social magnetism, nor can you force the inexplicable ability to know someone in every bar, club and smoking area across the city. The party friend simply is. They are a constant in your life, a familiar face in an increasingly unfamiliar world and across the dance floor, a sweaty palm you can always reach for amid stock market crashes, climate emergencies and the looming threat of killer AI robots. When you don't see the party friend on a night out, something feels strangely incomplete. You go home with a vague sense of disappointment, unable to put your finger on what was missing. Then, at 11am the following morning it dawns on you. You never once caught the familiar silhouette of the party friend across the room. You would send them a message to let them know you missed them, if only their Instagram account hadn't been inactive since 2016.
Perhaps, then, the party friend is more crucial than we give them credit for. In a generation increasingly accused of social withdrawal, there is something rather comforting about having that one person who will always be out there, in the corner of some underground club somewhere, keeping the dance floor alive. They are proof that not every social interaction needs to be scheduled, documented or turned into content. Sometimes, it is enough to simply turn up, bump into someone you know, and see where the night takes you.
And really, isn't that what going out was supposed to be about in the first place?
The party friend is the human-apparition rebuttal to every smug auntie at the dinner table who insists that 'you people just don't go out like we used to'. Well, auntie, let me stop you right there. Have you met my friend Nathan, whom I first encountered in a smokers and continue to encounter in smokers at 1am every weekend? The same Nathan who possesses the uncanny ability to catch a bartender's attention in the middle of a packed bar, with the magnetic force of a drunk person gravitating towards a Marlboro Gold? You know exactly what their sweat smells like because you've had it transferred onto you on multiple occasions as they bump and grind their way through whatever genre of music the club has decided to inflict upon you that evening. They are a club socialite, a party mosquito, a nocturnal social butterfly who somehow manages to suck the life back into an otherwise generation of club avoiders.
The party friend is here to stay, both on and off the dance floor in every generation and every dance floor in every life.