Chips, Cheese and Donner - We’re on it ‘til the ‘morra.

There are a few certainties in Glasgow student life: the 4 pm sunset, the ever-looming deadlines and the sacred, near-spiritual ritual of ending your night with a chippy. Not just any chippy, mind you. This is a culinary pilgrimage, fueled by Pints of Fun and cheesy pop music, united in one urgent craving: chips, cheese and a bit of donner on the side. Some say Glasgow’s nightlife ends when the club shuts. The rest of us know that’s where it really begins: the queue for 727 that stretches longer than your last situationship, or when you’re brave enough to cross enemy lines to the Blue Lagoon, where you’re statistically more likely to be offered a square go than a napkin (speaking from experience).

727, the West End’s unofficial afters, is the gold standard. Conveniently found, reliably open and blissfully tolerant to your slurred attempts to pronounce ‘donner’ with three R’s. Their chips taste like absolution. Their cheese clings to your soul. And their staff? Unfazed veterans of the nightlife trenches. Legends.

Of course, you might venture to the Blue Lagoon if you're feeling adventurous. It’s like rolling a deep-fried dice. Sure, you might get your food. You might also get yelled at by a guy named Big Shug for asking if there's a bit of salad for the burger. Life is full of mysteries.

There’s a particular moment though, just after you’ve escaped the club and find yourself on Great Western Road. Jacket pulled over your head, shielding yourself from the watchful eyes of the reflections and mascara halfway down your chin, that your stomach starts hollering in Morse code. It’s in this moment that the call of the chippy reaches astronomical proportions.

The lights become beacons guiding you to happiness. Your friends are arguing over the music choices in HIVE, but all you can think about is the chicken nuggets you’re about to demolish. Specifically, the chicken nuggets you’ll wait 20 minutes for, just to make them almost toxic with the copious amounts of salt, vinegar, and ketchup unleashed upon them. It is a masterpiece. A meal. A memory. And my go-to.

Late-night food cravings aren’t just chaos; they’re biology. When you drink, your blood sugar levels dip. Your body craves fast food: grease, carbs, sodium. According to actual studies (that I promise I’m not making up), your liver and brain hold a summit around 3 am and decide, “send chips,” and so, we obey.

Whether you’re in a tux after the law ball or three vodka crans deep in glitter, the chippy accepts it all. No judgment, no dress code. Just salt, sauce, and solidarity.

“Chips, cheese and donner, we’re on it ‘til the 'morra.” It’s a battle cry. A shared poem. A dialect of joy. You’ve yelled it into the night at some point, arm-in-arm with strangers, chips in hand. It’s been whispered on Sauchiehall Street, screamed outside McDonald’s, and etched into the sticky floors of The Well.

Now, some people will tell you to eat something “nutritionally balanced” after a night out. These people are enemies of joy. Do they even go here?

The truth is: there’s nothing quite like a post-night-out scran. You’re hungry. You’re exhausted. You’re emotionally raw from screaming the lyrics to Mr. Brightside. And somehow, this food, this glorious, glistening mess of fried goodness, puts you back together.

So, here’s to the nights we don’t remember, and the orders we always do. Here’s to 727 and the Blue Lagoon. Here’s to ketchup-stained sleeves and curry-sauced fingers. And above all, here’s to the sacred phrase that unites us all:

“Chips, cheese and donner, we’re on it ‘til the 'morra.”