smacks o'clock

Ah, smacks o'clock, the time when otherwise sane young people become agitated with the progression of the night, and head off to a more ebullient nightspot. During a lull in conversation, someone will mention how smacks o'clock must be approaching. Nobody knows the exact moment this most undefinable of time begins. Estimates by renowned scientologists and psychic media (surely the plural of medium) have placed the time as early as 10pm, but other sources have suggested a time much closer to midnight. Either way, when the feeling is right, the nebulous idea of a smacks visit enters the minds of the merry band. Surely, soon we will be drinking £1 bottles, doing the macarena, requesting naughty big screen messages and perving over teenage girls. There will be flashcards aplenty, and injokes galore as the feeling gathers pace. And then it happens. Suddenly, every glass is empty. We are astanding, moving towards the exit of the pre-smacks drinking establishment, and we are on our way Another night has begun