I don’t really understand clubbing. If you think about it objectively as a human phenomenon, it’s just very strange. Whole cohorts of people voluntarily elect to place themselves within a small and sweaty environment, in which loud bass music throbs in their ears and seedy strangers try to arse-grope them. Think about your average club. There are going to be bouncers. Next to these bouncers will be a pile of collapsed/stumbling/shivering underage girls wearing imitation Herve Leger bandage dresses, fake tan, chunky dominatrix heels, straightened hair and eye makeup to rival Taylor Momsen. They probably came to the club on a party bus.
First, the bouncer has to cleverly ascertain that you are in fact over eighteen. The techniques that bouncers use to check this strain credulity. Because they are stupid. A common way to achieve such a deduction is to ask you what star sign you are. Because if you know the star sign of the date of birth on your ID, it is clearly yours. One time a very astute bouncer tried to trip me up on using a fakie (and fair enough, because I was using the driver’s license of a twenty two year old Latino chick when I was actually a seventeen year old white girl). This is how it went:
“What is your date of birth?”
“27th of April”
And then, with a glint in his eye as if he had thought of the question that would be my undoing, he further questioned, “Oh yeah?… What year?”
As if I wouldn’t have bothered to memorize the year that my alias was born in if I had memorized the day and month. Silly bastard.
Anyway. Once you get into the club, you are confronted by a very off-putting sight. All around you, there are groups of bodies and limbs and cellulitey bums hanging out of dresses. They gyrate and grind and make eyes at one another, and at you. You are afraid. They are animals. The only way to survive will be to buy an overpriced drink from the bar, at which you will have to queue for twenty minutes to get served, all the while being elbowed in the face by tall, fat guys. Twelve dollars later and vodka soda in hand, you navigate your way back to your friends. Your shoes stick to the floor (you have sensibly worn flat boots) and you are wolf-whistled at. You try and make conversation but the music is too loud. It pulsates through your head at a pace only pingers could allow you to endure.
A man asks you to the dance floor, where he proceeds to whisper sweet nothings (“I run my own car dealership, baby”) in your ear. You allow him to buy you drinks for a while because this necessitates his intermittent removal from your presence. Your friends are hooking up with some random bunch of German backpackers and you are bored, bored, bored. You try and move your body sexily to the beat, but you end up looking like Liz Lemon impersonating Tracy Jordan. You wish you were at home watching the new season of Suits with a bag of granola in your hand. Finally, at 1:30, you sneak out of the club without saying goodbye to your friends, as they will beg you not to go or drunkenly say goodbye to you for half an hour while screaming how much they will miss you.
This is clubbing. And the cab ride home will cost fifty dollars because all the buses have stopped running. Fucking Cityrail. Work it out, Gladys Berejiklian.
So why don’t you… accept that you are an old person at heart, put on your Bonds tracksuit pants, order Thai food and never, ever leave the house?