by
Charlie Brooker
I went to a fashionable
London nightclub on Saturday. Not the sort of
sentence I get to write very often, because I enjoy
nightclubs less than
I enjoy eating wool. But a glamorous friend of mine was there to "do a
PA", and she'd invited me and some curious friends along because we
wanted to see precisely what "doing a PA" consists of. Turns out doing a
public appearance largely entails sitting around drinking free
champagne and generally just "being there".
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.
|
English: Photograph taken by Mushin at Gatecrasher on 16 April 2006. (Photo credit: Wikipedia) |
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smoking ban, the masking aroma of cigarette smoke has been replaced by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.
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