As I’ve mentioned in a previous post, I’m not a party party clubbing kind of girl. In fact my perfect night would involve snuggling up with a book or watching a film with copious amounts of chocolate. Unfortunately that isn’t the most sociable and, whilst friends are welcome to join me in a chocolate-induced coma, it seems kids these days prefer clubbing. Jeez, even the word sounds weird – like Fred Flintstone has just turned up to start clubbing you around the head or something.
Now don’t get me wrong – socialising is awesome. I could chat for hours on end without a problem, which although might be a problem for some it usually works out ok. In a club, however, talking isn’t really possible due to the noise deemed ‘music’.
Last week I decided to go out with my flat and, all in all, a pretty good night. The noise wasn’t all bad and my ears were only ringing until the following afternoon. However, clubbing is never as splendiferous as some films, books and people make it out to be. It’s basically a gathering of mostly drunk people moving their limbs sporadically with a few jumps here and there to music they won’t remember in the morning.
We made it to the club with no casualties (a success) and seeing as the last time I went clubbing with them we ended the night not clubbing but getting a McDonald’s, going on the bus home and then looking after one of the girls who threw up in a McDonald’s bag on one bus (seriously, those things aren’t even designed to hold grease) and then again on another bus in the mc flurry cup.
We queued for about 20mins before reaching the front of the line, but even that wasn’t without incident. Some bloke was seriously sick in the queue and so had to leave said queue to continue his drunken sickness elsewhere. One of the cheerful employees of the club who seriously must adore his job because how can you not enjoy being tasked with bringing out a bucket of soapy water to wash away the sick? He seemed to do his job with particular malice as he didn’t seem to be concerned with other queue-goers getting splashed.
After ID was checked and our wrists were stamped, we made it into the smoky, noisy room where some people were ordering drinks, some were attempting to dance, some dared to join yet another queue for a cloakroom and others were grinding against each other all over the place. I realised one pretty big mistake of the night which was choosing to wear flat slip on shoes – the floor covered with a sticky substance that I don’t want to think about kept trying to take them off me. This is probably why I spent my time ‘dancing’ in a Chandler-from-friends-like-fashion and not moving my feet.
The night continued on in this vain, but also had the wonderful occurrences of sleazy guys trying to grab at girls of the group – I made it my mission to try and save them all – as well as a man taking pictures of us at awkward angles.
So we danced, some drank, some stumbled about – you get the idea. The rest of the night included queueing once more for the cloakroom, escaping the venue in pretty much one piece and getting a night bus home – on which we sang various Taylor swift songs and took snapchats. It also involved the usual – someone needing to leave the bus to be ill – but we all made it back safe and sound in the end, even if it did seem doubtful at some points.
You might say that this isn’t a ‘guide’ post whatsoever, and more of a not-really-amusing rendition of a typical night out that you’ve spent your precious time reading. I’ll tell you, friends, that this is not necessarily a guide but a warning. A warning that if you are going to university, then never wear slip on shoes to a club and don’t get so hammered that you have to be sick before you even get to the club. Also make sure you have a designated sober-ish friend who will ensure that you’re not carried away by crazies or left on a bus. Other than that, have fun, enjoy the crazy and live the uni life to whatever extent you wish – or wish not.