It started as a regular night; a few casual drinks with friends was followed shortly by us deciding that donning only a pair of Calvin Kleins and body-painting our top halves as tuxedos was a grand idea. It was minus seven, my testicles were suffering frostbite, and yet there we are, four hours later, nigh naked, smoking in some grim outdoor area of a depressingly busy club and watching the sun come up, a bit like a family, you know? It was at that moment, as my body finally told me it had had enough tequila that I realised… I hate nightclubs.
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Young people love nightclubs. I say young people because I’m nearly twenty two and as young as that seems I hold the belief that once you’ve shouted at Virgin Media on the phone for twelve hours and paid a gas bill, you’re automatically older than everyone else and you have more of a say in things. And if I hate nightclubs, you should all be forced to read about it.
It’s hard to pinpoint just what I hate about these wretched places, so I’ve decided to categorise my rant into five sections, one for each of our senses.
I’ve left the warmth of my nag champa incense burning Shangri-La flat and I’ve made my way down to the local Oceana, a poor exchange. The fifteen minute wait has given my bollocks frostbite (again). I finally get in and manage to have my coat snatched off me by an unfortunate seventeen year old cloakroom attendant who resembles an Oompa Loompa on heat. All I can smell at this point is the piss steaming out of the toilet door. Or at least I thought that was all I could smell before the steroid junked sleeveless vest barges past me and gives me a punch in the face of every single Lynx product ever invented. I manage to battle my way through the fumes of cheap Lacoste limping behind another pack of adolescents and am greeted by the stale smell of sweat and Jager Bombs on the dance floor. I don’t really know what to say about the hot dog vendor.
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Nightclubs are meant to be all singing, all dancing places of euphoria. My trip to Oceana greeted me with gaggles of pasted, wasted girls, literally screaming at one another, pulling each other’s hair out, or vomiting in the nearest plant pot whilst eager men glare as they bend over. We all know the uncomfortable group of middle aged men who probably shouldn’t be encircling the dance floor, only to swoop in on your nearest female friend when she makes a split second’s eye contact. If you are one of these, we can see you, and you are not invisible. But I think of all the sights, the dance floor had to be the sorriest of all. I saw a group of maybe ten or eleven girls at one point, all on their phones. I for one go onto a dance floor to dance on the floor, but apparently it’s the new place to use up valuable room and tweet how much fun you’re probably not having.
I don’t really need to go into this one. You pay seven quid for something that smells as bad as the sleeveless vest did, or you pay ten quid for a drink you could have made at home for one. Still, this is important. Drink. You’ll need it.
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I think of all the things I hate on this planet (and I am a well and truly miserable human being, stay tuned), it’s the feeling of someone else’s sweat scratching against my skin. The armies of girls wearing bandage skirts – and the fact there is a garment called a ‘bandage skirt’ dictates impending disaster – is all the more heaven sent when it’s doused in the perspiration saturated, smoke ridden polo neck of the chav riding up next to her, both of them pretending they don’t have a chance with one another when both know that the next sambuca will be the game changer.
Don’t get me wrong, this is the reason I go to a nightclub. If there is one thing that I can handle, it’s the music. My one huge gripe with nightclub music nowadays though is it seems more and more places seem to be putting on a ‘Now’ album, and then waltzing off for a drink. This is by no means true of all places, I’ve seen some shit hot DJ’ing, but I can’t help but think some places are getting sloppy.
All in all, you can probably guess that I really, really hate nightclubs. But I suppose that’s just what you get for going on a night out to Oceana.
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