Club 18 to 24 and a 1/2

While on my radio show a few weeks back (catch it here) my co-host said an interesting thing. He said, “…back in the days when I used to go clubbing..”. At this I did stop and pause and thought ‘yup that is definitely a part of my life that is over now’….and I couldn’t care less.

As a fresh faced 18 year old starting university, a person would baulk at that statement. “24?! Bored of going out!?”. It’s true though. I mean, what is there to enjoy from the typical night out on the tiles?

First you spend all day ‘planning’ for it, this usually means you eat food that you are sure you can keep down and that your mate Barry reckons ‘definitely soaks up the alcohol so you can like well drink more’. Then you have your dinner, normally its pasta and you wonder why you don’t eat much spaghetti anymore.

Then it’s onto the pre-drinks! Whether at someone’s house or in a Cheap Bar these can be fun, but the constant checking of the clock so you don’t miss it and spoil the night kinda tempers the whole affair. You rush into the pub, along with much of the youff in the town who have had the same idea, and zip straight to the bar and order the cheapest, foulest drink ‘cos it’s on offer’. After a few pints of Bavarian Ballsack, it’s time for shots! (This all takes place within an hour of entering the bar, gotta watch that time you know). “One, two, three – salt, tequila, lime! Eww that tasted like shite!” Which is because this Cheap Bar stocks Cash and Carry Tequila, so there is a good chance that it was brewed in Stockton-on-Tees by a guy who once ate at a Mexican restaurant, so that counts.

After the shots (and maybe a strawpedo or two) you decide that time is of the essence so you and your mates make a beeline for the nearest night club. Sadly no-one thought to do the maths, so after leaving a packed bar and walking past 4 more packed bars you are shocked to find that the night-club is pretty full and it’s a strict ‘one-in-one-out’ policy. That bouncer on the door looks like he used to be in the armed forces, that’s ok – Daddy is an Captain! You swagger up to him hoping to get let into the club a little early. Strike up a conversation with ‘Hello sailor’ and instantly regret it. He looks at you like you are a turd on the pavement and tells you to ‘Foxtrot Oscar’. Plan failed – back in line.

Inside isn’t much cop so don’t worry. Drinks are triple what you paid in the Cheap Bar, the music is blisteringly loud off the dance floor, any seats are oddly sticky and the bars are staffed by lobotomy patients – and not enough of them at that.

The girl on the right decides in a free economy of her undercrackers

Back in the queue, it is slowly creeping to the front and the bottle of vodka you have been passing round your mates is running low. You try to amuse yourself to distract from the fact that, wearing your ‘lucky pulling’ t-shirt in December, you are freezing. You wonder which of the guys in front of you will be ejected from the queue first for being too drunk. Whether that girl behind you in the 7-inch heels wants a chat. The Vodka reckons she does. “Awight dahlin” (because this is the way it is said). She looks blankly back at you, peering through her huge false lashes and foundation so thick they could build the Olympic Stadium on it. “Wot you want, perv!?” She turns away. This is the point that you realise you have your hands down your trousers to keep them warm. Smooth.

Finally you get to the front. Success! “Hello Sailor” The bouncer seems to remember you smiles. He stands in your way and opens the rope to guide you out onto the street. “Trainers mate”. “They aren’t trainers!” “Alright, we are full, pick a reason – piss off” No need to argue any more, because you can’t. As you stumble away, you see the bouncer happily let the girls in the, and the overly-butch female bouncer frisk them for sharp objects, which would be a trick in a dress that short – though she ignores the heels.

As you stumble away from the club, drink really kicking in, two of your mates decide that they can’t agree on whether Rihanna or Jessica Alba is hotter and to settle it they try to rearrange each other’s face. After stepping in and getting a bang on the face for the pleasures you stomp off into the distance. In fact you are furious with the whole night so you run. Then you stop. Then you are sick cos of the exercise. Then you realise why you don’t eat more spaghetti.

Is this an accurate description? For a lot of people, yes. And to them I say, oh sod off. When I fancy a night out, I fancy popping to the nearest pub with good tunes on the box (see The Minnie Driver in Mile End for this), good beer, seat and the chance to get blind drunk, slowly, with your mates. This is a night out. Getting far drunker than the youff-ful plebbs, falling asleep without eating that kebab you bought and waking up to Football Focus wondering why you saw fit to leave a shoe at the pub ‘for safe-keeping’. Top hole

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