Last night I went out with a bunch of friends. It was my last chance to see a lot of them as I’m leaving Southampton at the start of next week. A great deal of alcohol was imbibed, hugs were had, tears were shed.
And realisations were reached.
They say that you’ve reached adulthood when you don’t enjoy clubbing any more. Actually, they don’t. I just made that up. But it’s as good a measure as anything. I used to enjoy clubbing at university. At least I think I did. We used to go to a local shithole called “Kaos” every Monday night from the university Theatre Group, imbibe a great deal of cheap alcohol and dance until the early hours. And I have plenty of fond memories of those occasions. Again, at least I think I did. They’re a bit hazy.
So last night we went to a couple of places. First up was the Orange Rooms, which is a reasonable-ish place full of girls in dresses that barely qualify as dresses, comfortable-ish chairs and overpriced drinks. It was cool to see everyone but the conversation was gradually muted by the fact that the music got so loud that the bass was shaking books off the shelves on the walls. And frequently onto our heads.
I don’t know if I’m going deaf, haven’t attuned my hearing properly or am just ill-versed in the fine art of conversation during loud noises. But other people seem well-equipped to continue a conversation under these circumstances. I find myself having to say “Huh?” and “What?” a lot, or feigning that I’ve actually heard them when as a matter of fact I haven’t.
This becomes doubly troublesome when it becomes clear that the other participant in the exchange has asked a question. I have two choices at this point—yes or no. No-one ever asks a question requiring a complicated answer under these circumstances, which is a small mercy, I guess. So I have to work out whether the question which has been asked is one which requires a yes or no answer, and then pick one of the two. I have a 50/50 chance of my answer making sense. Sometimes it doesn’t. Then I just shrug and let the pitiful attempt at conversation fade.
Late in the evening, a few people disappeared and the rest of us were dragged to a nearby club called “Junk”. Aptly named. At “Junk” I had my first experience of a style of music a bunch of people I know have been banging on about for ages, which is, I believe, dubstep. I didn’t really know what dubstep was prior to tonight, but I had a feeling I probably wasn’t going to appreciate its finer artistic merits.
As it happened, that was a correct assumption. Dubstep, or at least the Junk interpretation of it, appeared to be playing songs as they originally sounded, only with a bassline that goes WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB over the top of it, and an occasional klaxon solo. So the whole thing ends up sounding something like TURN AROUND BRIIIIGHT EYES EVERY NOW AND THEN I FALL A PAAAAAAWUB WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB HOOOOOOOOONK HOOOOOOOOOOONK WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE HEART
Sorry guys. I know you dig it and all. But I really don’t get it. Like, even a little bit. It hurt my brain. The thumping beats are fine for dancing, but I couldn’t see myself just sitting listening to it.
Dancing is weird, too, isn’t it? People wilfully gathering together in order to gyrate suggestively and/or spastically presumably in the hope of attracting someone to have some form of sexual congress with. Well, okay, no. Not everyone is there to get laid. But the ones who are make themselves very obvious. I’d hate to be an attractive girl. The sight of a bunch of men gradually gathering around you making overtly sexual motions is probably enormously intimidating. And that, besides the fact I’d think I’d look like a dick, is why I don’t do that. It is also why I don’t go to clubs to look for a potential mate. Or indeed at all.
So there you have it. At the age of 29, I am officially Over Clubbing. (Note: this is different from “overclubbing”, which generally leads to a significantly larger hangover than I had today) I like going out for a drink at a decent bar. I like having a laugh with my friends. I even like going to smaller clubs that play decent music. The Dungeon here in Southampton is a great example, largely because it attracts nerds, geeks, goths and other outcasts of “mainstream” culture. But spending time in what appears to be a darkened warehouse that plays music that doesn’t make sense and getting surrounded by perverts in Ben Sherman shirts? Sounds like a dream come true to some, I’m sure. But I think you can count me out!
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The lateness of this entry can be entirely attributed to Fable II. I apologise. But I haven’t been to bed yet, so this still falls within the rules. So there.
I think the mistake you made here was: clubs dancing, bars talking. You go to the bars first for chat, and then go dance at the club. Or, you just stay in the bars and chat. Also. You choose your clubs more wisely.
40 and still not Over Clubbing, not that I have a huge amounts of clubbing opportunites when I work every Friday and Saturday night.
Sound advice! The trouble is, a lot of the places around here have a real identity crisis. The first place we went to is technically a bar but ended up being club-loud. And the club we went to was recommended by a couple among our number. Though I believe this may have been more to do with the fact we could get in free rather than the actual quality of the place.
As I say, there are some clubs I happily go to with no problems. You can talk in the aforementioned Dungeon, despite it technically being a rock club.
Also, I’ve never been much for dancing. I had a brief period during my time at university where drinking enough vodka and Red Bull would make me happily dance like a complete tool—that was back in the days of the “it has the same effect as ecstasy!” rumour—but now? Hmmmmmmm. No. I think I’d rather get pissed with friends round someone’s house now!
Yeah, that’s a problem with a lot of town centres now, the “bars” all have dj’s and stay open til 2am, whereas traditionally you would go to the pub until 11pm and then move on to the club.
Basically, if I wanted a night out chatting with friends, I would either have/go to a house party, or a local pub, for a night out dancing, I would go into the town centre. Unfortunately, my Friday and Saturday nights are usually about clearing up after everyone else partaking a little too much in the above adventures.
There was a time when if I hadn’t been wasted in a club on Friday and Saturday night, then my weekend had been a bust. Pesky worldly and mature inconveniences like mortgages turned my weekends more into “ooh look at this lovely crate of cider, let’s drink it and watch Buffy”, which turned into, “I appear to have chosen to spend my weekends at work, watching other people have fun.”
Don Woods gave up clubbing years ago.
Well, you’ve got caves to explore, Mr Woods. I bet you were a demon on the dance floor in your day, though.
I’m with you on this matter. Give me somewhere to sit, music that allows conversation and not too many egos and I’ll probably have a great time.
So. Coming to Lennon’s?
Lennons! <3