Obviously, at 36, I was more than a decade older than almost everyone else, and subsequently may as well have been smeared head to toe with pus. People regarded me with a combination of pity and disgust. To complete the circuit, I spent the night wearing the expression of a man waking up to Christmas in a prison cell.
"I'm too old to enjoy this," I thought. And then remembered I've always felt this way about clubs. And I mean all clubs - from the cheesiest downmarket sickbucket to the coolest cutting-edge hark-at-us poncehole. I hated them when I was 19 and I hate them today. I just don't have to pretend any more.
I'm convinced no one actually likes clubs. It's a conspiracy. We've been told they're cool and fun; that only "saddoes" dislike them. And no one in our pathetic little pre-apocalyptic timebubble wants to be labelled "sad" - it's like being officially declared worthless by the state. So we muster a grin and go out on the town in our millions.
Clubs are despicable. Cramped, overpriced furnaces with sticky walls and the latest idiot theme tunes thumping through the humid air so loud you can't hold a conversation, just bellow inanities at megaphone-level. And since the smoking ban, the masking aroma of cigarette smoke has been replaced by the overbearing stench of crotch sweat and hair wax.
Clubs are such insufferable dungeons of misery, the inmates have to take mood-altering substances to make their ordeal seem halfway tolerable. This leads them to believe they "enjoy" clubbing. They don't. No one does. They just enjoy drugs.
Drugs render location meaningless. Neck enough ketamine and you could have the best night of your life squatting in a shed rolling corks across the floor. And no one's going to search you on the way in. Why bother with clubs?
"Because you might get a shag," is the usual response. Really? If that's the only way you can find a partner - preening and jigging about like a desperate animal - you shouldn't be attempting to breed in the first place. What's your next trick? Inventing fire? People like you are going to spin civilisation into reverse. You're a moron, and so is that haircut you're trying to impress. Any offspring you eventually blast out should be drowned in a pan before they can do any harm. Or open any more nightclubs.
Even if you somehow avoid reproducing, isn't it a lot of hard work for very little reward? Seven hours hopping about in a hellish, reverberating bunker in exchange for sharing 64 febrile, panting pelvic thrusts with someone who'll snore and dribble into your pillow till 11 o'clock in the morning, before waking up beside you with their hair in a mess, blinking like a dizzy cat and smelling vaguely like a ham baguette? Really, why bother? Why not just stay at home punching yourself in the face? Invite a few friends round and make a night of it. It'll be more fun than a club.
Anyway, back to Saturday night, and apart from the age gap, two other things stuck me. Firstly, everyone had clearly spent far too long perfecting their appearance. I used to feel intimidated by people like this; now I see them as walking insecurity beacons, slaves to the perceived judgment of others, trapped within a self- perpetuating circle of crushing status anxiety. I'd still secretly like to be them, of course, but at least these days I can temporarily erect a veneer of defensive, sneering superiority. I've progressed that far.
The second thing that struck me was frightening. They were all photographing themselves. In fact, that's all they seemed to be doing. Standing around in expensive clothes, snapping away with phones and cameras. One pose after another, as though they needed to prove their own existence, right there, in the moment. Crucially, this seemed to be the reason they were there in the first place. There was very little dancing. Just pouting and flashbulbs.
Surely this is a new development. Clubs have always been vapid and awful and boring and blah - but I can't remember clubbers documenting their every moment before. Not to this demented extent. It's not enough to pretend you're having fun in the club any more - you've got to pretend you're having fun in your Flickr gallery, and your friends' Flickr galleries. An unending exhibition in which a million terrified, try-too-hard imbeciles attempt to out-cool each other.
Mind you, since in about 20 years' time these same people will be standing waist-deep in skeletons, in an arid post-nuclear wasteland, clubbing each other to death in a fight for the last remaining glass of water, perhaps they're wise to enjoy these carefree moments while they last. Even if they're only pretending.
· This week Charlie shook his head in tearful dismay at Sally Morgan: Star Psychic on ITV1: "If the TV networks want to 'regain trust with the viewer', why gleefully promote the kind of bogus supernatural bullshit a stunned foetus could see through?" He watched the preview trailer for the second part of R Kelly's Trapped in the Closet: "I'm impatiently counting the seconds."
The Dance Club Essay
722 Words3 Pages
Young adults sometimes have a struggle to find something exciting and safe to do on the weekend. It’s hard to find fun things that are not too dangerous. In the past, finding excitement has been a challenge for me, also, but in recent years I personally have found excitement in dance clubs and dance music. I find dance clubs, with large crowds of young people, usually eighteen years and older can be a place to let loose of the weekday pressures and just have fun. With the large crowds, clubs usually sell out and long lines form outside, with people waiting to get into the “crazy environment of the club.” Clubs usually are very well prepared for this scenario, of handling large crowds, by having an increased amount of security and…show more content…
Everyone is so excited to get inside. Some people dance around outside like little toy robots, to the beat of the fast music. As the line continues to grow outside, you find excitement through the massive doors that everyone is waiting to walk through. Two steps inside and you’re in a magical world of disco lights, laser beams, and the irreplaceable glow of black lights shinning on people. Everyone is smiling and having such a good time. You don’t even realize you’re packed in the club like sardines. The D J moves you in ways no one has ever done before. Mixing the loud music on the turn tables to the beat you desire to hear, the D J watches the half naked bodies of young men and women dancing around as if something has possessed their bodies. Men are wearing an under shirt, or no shirt at all, and pants. They eye the women who strut around in tank tops and tight dance pants or skirts, and who are smiling, and letting all their worries go away. The line at the bar is extremely frantic, with people getting water or their favorite alcoholic beverage. This is so important because perspiration is a major factor, and nobody wants to pass out from dehydration. As the big warehouse size fans blow as hard as they can, to cool down the sweaty bodies, you smell the musk of the guys and the sweet smell of perfume from the ladies as the