1866: Going Out, and the Perils Thereof

I’m writing this from our restaurant table. We’re right near the open kitchen and the food smells amazing. My mouth is watering just thinking about eating it, particularly as it’s something a little unusual and different from our norm: it’s Caribbean food, which I have had before, but not for quite some time, and it’s not a cuisine I’d say I know well.

Unfortunately, it’s also 10.30pm and we’ve been here since 8pm. We’ve only just sat down, only just ordered, and God knows how long it will take for the food to actually arrive at our table. This has, as you can probably imagine, soured the experience a little.

I should have seen it coming, of course. It’s Friday night in the city centre, and that was a busy time back when I was at university. Over the last few years in particular, the city centre has undergone extensive regeneration — the restaurant we’re currently sitting in is part of one of these new and restored buildings. With new and shiny buildings — and an expanding student population at both of the two city’s universities — come hordes of people, of course. But I hadn’t realised until now quite how ridiculously busy it gets in town.

This is probably nothing new to those of you who live in busy, bustling cities around the globe. But for me it’s quite surprising. Southampton never felt like a particularly big deal, and Going Out used to be something you could do on a whim. It was often quite enjoyable to do so — friends and I would often take impromptu trips to local watering holes like Lennons and Kaos, and we’d always be able to get in and have a good time.

Not any more. Going Out appears to have become something that needs to be planned well in advance, that involves lots of standing around waiting, and that, frankly, just isn’t particularly fun any more.

Perhaps it’s my age. Perhaps it’s the fact I’ve practically been a hikikomori for the past few years (and am largely comfortable with this). Or perhaps it’s the pitiful organisation of this place that saw us waiting for more than two hours to sit down, let alone eat. Whatever it is, I don’t count on myself doing it much more in the future, unless the occasion is very special indeed.

On the plus side, however, between writing the last paragraph and this one I’ve eaten a plateful of whitebait for the first time in about 20 years, and it was every bit as delicious as I remember. So at least the food is good. Worth the wait? Questionable, but at least the tedious and rubbish part of the evening is over.

1299: It’s Four O’Clock in the Morning

Good morning! I’ve just got in. (Well, I got in about half an hour ago, but whatever.)

I’ve been “out” this evening. I recall writing a post a while back about how I don’t really “go out” any more in the way I used to — that’s “go out” in the sense of “going somewhere to imbibe a lot of alcoholic beverages then stumble somewhere you probably won’t remember in the morning.” And yet this evening I found myself doing almost exactly that. (The only part lacking was the “lot of alcoholic beverages”, since I was driving.)

It was my friend James’ stag night this evening, you see — an event which is continuing over the weekend. This evening was intended to be a fairly conventional night out — a nice meal, then maybe a couple of drinks somewhere, then back home in preparation for other stuff tomorrow. Since we’re all considerably older than we used to be, we weren’t particularly intending on doing anything “big” or time-consuming like clubbing, but somehow here I am at nearly 4am having just rolled in from what ended up being a rather long night.

The specifics? Not a chance. What happens on the stag night stays on the stag night and all that.

Suffice to say, though, I was surprised how much I ended up enjoying myself, and it was largely down to two things: the company, who were pleasingly laid back for the whole evening, and the venues, which, while hastily chosen in all cases apart from the restaurant we’d booked, turned out to be entertaining, pleasant places to hang out. And by that — yes, I’m aware how old I sound when I say this — I mean they were places where you could actually hold a conversation with the people you were with, rather than having to bellow small talk into each other’s ears — something which I always find to be embarrassing and surprisingly exhausting.

On the whole, I think James had an eminently suitable start to his stag night, weekend, whatever you want to call it. The evening took a few twists and turns I don’t think any of us were expecting when we started, and I think everyone had a good time. I also think most people involved were surprised that we all still had what turned out to be a lengthy night out in us — it’s nice to know that we’re perhaps not as decrepit as we might have perhaps thought we were.

I do quite urgently need to sleep now, though, despite the amount of Coke I’ve imbibed over the course of the evening. I can have a lie-in tomorrow morning, at least, then it’s Doing Stuff that is Probably a Little More Sedate Than This Evening tomorrow afternoon and evening. For now, adieu.

#oneaday Day 743: Out

It occurs to me that I haven’t “been out” for ages. Not literally; I left the house both yesterday and today and will probably do so again tomorrow. I’m referring to what people mean when they say they are “going out” for an evening — that is, hitting the pubs and clubs of the local area, and probably drinking heavily along the way. Motivations for “going out” may vary — meeting with friends, going on the pull or simply just for something to do — but the results are usually pretty similar.

The vast majority of my “going out” when I was younger (read: during the university years) was conducted in conjunction with my good friend and Agricola demon Sam. We had quite a few memorable nights over the years, but they often tended to follow a fairly similar pattern.

Sam and I, and possibly a few others, would decide that we wanted to go out for some reason. In fact, there wasn’t always an explicit reason — “Let’s go to Lennon’s” was usually reason enough.

Regardless of whether there was a reason or not, we would get ourselves into whatever we considered our glad-rags to be, and head out for our target — usually either the aforementioned Lennon’s or Kaos, two grotty little student-heavy nightclubs within easy staggering distance of most of our homes, and two places with a predilection for cheap drinks that were usually 1) a knockoff of a recognisable drink and 2) out of date. Lennon’s, in particular, proudly sported a fridge which noted “contents may be out of date” and the happily sold you said contents for £1 a bottle.

The reason we went to these places rather than somewhere bigger and (arguably) better? Stubbornness, partly, but also none of us were particularly hardcore clubbers. None of us were into doing the drugs (to my knowledge, anyway) and none of us were bigtime drinkers. Both Lennon’s and Kaos allowed you the authentic clubland experience of being in a dark, smelly room with music too loud to talk to your friends over, but were both small enough that you never lost track of your friends for very long. Lennon’s, in particular, was roughly the size of a large garden shed and entirely contained in a single room, so if you had reached the stage where you couldn’t find your friends in there, you had definitely had too much.

Part of the appeal of “going out” for some is going on the pull, hoping to score some sweet lovin’ from some trophy guy/girl that you’d had your eye on all night. Or, as the evening went on, anyone who looked vaguely in your direction or accidentally made eye contact.

Suffice to say, our attempts in that regard were usually confined to standing on the perimeter of the dance floor having picked a “target” that we decided we quite liked, and then staring at them off and on for most of the night. When closing time rolled around, we would then leave with the lingering sense of regret that we should have probably actually gone and tried to talk to them, or at the very least danced near them in the vain hope they might pay attention.

I can only remember a single successful instance of “pulling” in my entire life. I was at Kaos, this time with the university theatre group, as it was our wont to invade Kaos every Monday night and enjoy their plentiful stocks of Newcastle Brown Ale and vodka-fake Red Bull. On this particular occasion, I had had a fair amount of vodka and fake Red Bull, and was consequently of the opinion that my dancing was The Shit.

“You ever tried ecstasy, mate?” yelled some Neanderthal I didn’t know in my ear as I wildly flailed around the dance floor.

“No,” I replied honestly. Almost immediately afterwards I was grabbed by a nearby blonde girl (named Beki, as it turned out) who proceeded to snog my face off.

“Yeah,” said the guy to me after Beki had allowed me to come up for air. “You’d love ecstasy.”

Quite.

So why don’t I “go out” any more? Several reasons, really: I don’t really drink any more; I live a long way from anyone who might want to “go out”; but most of all, I’m not sure I see the point any more.

That said, I can think of two people offhand who may well be reading this for whom I would happily make an exception and subject myself to the cavernous depths of The Dungeon or the sticky floor of Lennon’s. But that’s more because I haven’t seen them for ages and miss them rather than any particular massive desire to go clubbing. I certainly don’t feel the same pressure I once did that I perhaps “should” go out, head off somewhere by myself and have a miserable experience of the type outlined here.

Perhaps I’m just an antisocial old bastard. We can probably all agree on that.

#oneaday, Day 42: The Hangover

It’s been a while since a truly drunken night, and as I commented in one of my favourite posts of last year, it’s important to take stock of your situation the day after in order to ensure that no lasting damage has been done to yourself, your friendships, your relationships, your internal organs or the bathroom in the place where you were living or staying at the time.

Last night was what we shall politely call “a heavy night”. The reasons for said night out are either unimportant or possibly under embargo right now, so let’s just say that there was me; a group of people from whole other countries; lots of free-flowing alcohol, mostly in the form of Kamikaze shots or Jameson’s and ginger beer, which seemed to become the “official drink” of the evening (I initially judged the first one as disgusting but it either grew on me or I stopped caring after the first one. I forget which.); a basement bar called Roppongi; some girls in very tight dresses including one with a very 80s haircut and her friend who was still dressed up but looked like she had made less of an over-the-top “conscious effort” and was consequently far more attractive; and… well, I don’t think I need to go on—surely all the ingredients for a great night are already there.

I managed to conduct myself with an appropriate degree of decorum, however, and found myself on more than one occasion confronted with some very pleasant company who were probably mostly using me as an excuse to get away from some somewhat more lecherous company but at least did me the courtesy of seeming interested in the things I had to say. I can remember their names and everything. See, perfect gentleman, me. (Well, all right. There’s one I can’t quite remember the name of. But I’m not convinced I ever knew it in the first place, so I think we can let me off on that count. Also it was very noisy, and I was very drunk.)

The basement location of aforementioned bar precluded any possibility of drunk livetweeting the evening, which is probably for the best. It also prevented drunk texting and phoning, also probably for the best, though I can’t recall a time I’ve ever actually phoned anyone when drunk. (People phone me, though. The words “Lana no sleep!” and the sounds of the person in question frantically scrabbling at their front door attempting to get in and failing still haunt me to this day.) I am occasionally guilty of the odd drunken text, however, as that previous post will attest.

In fact, the whole evening was thoroughly pleasant—no-one got into a fight, no one pissed anyone else off (or if they did, the one who was pissed off hid it well) and no-one made too much of a fool of themselves. Everyone made it back to their respective sleeping quarters safely with no “unexpected guests”. And no-one was sick.

Until this morning, of course, when the hangover came. I can’t speak for my companions but if they felt anything like I did when I woke up at 8am after about 5 hours’ sleep, I sincerely pity them for having to be up, about and ready to be driven to the airport.

The trouble with a hangover is it takes time for you to work out its severity. When lying down, you might be able to judge that Today Will Not Be A Good Day. Standing up is the next text, as is attempting to walk to the bathroom. Breakfast offers an additional challenge, carrying the risk of your stomach going “AHHH. NO MORE. SRSLY” when confronted with… well, anything, really.

And all the while your brain is going through a constant cycle of thinking “Please don’t be sick. I won’t be sick if I don’t think about being sick. But trying really hard not to think about being sick is making me wonder if I’m actually feeling sick. And wondering if I’m actually feeling sick is making me think about how far it would go from here to actually being sick, and if I can make it to the toilet if I do suddenly feel sick. And oh. I feel sick. BLAAAARF.”

Sometimes you can overcome these urges, of course. It would be ungentlemanly of me to reveal whether or not I succeeded in this, however. You’ll have to make your own mind up.

#oneaday, Day 14: Is A Tardy Person Called A “Tard”?

Some people are habitually late for everything they do. Some more so than others. Some of them justify it under the guise of being “fashionably late”, that obnoxious concept where people, for some inexplicable reason, believe that the time on an invitation is open to negotiation, particularly if the event in question doesn’t involve people talking, singing, dancing or stripping (forget that last one) for your pleasure on a stage.

Where has this concept come from, though? eHow gives a frankly unnecessarily detailed five-step guide of how to be fashionably late. Urban Dictionary defines it as anywhere between 5 and 45 minutes depending on the event. But then they also define it as “showing up 5 minutes late with a supermodel on your cock”, so perhaps take their word with a grain or two of salt. The ever-reliable Ask Yahoo! fails to come up with any conclusive answers whatsoever. And no-one seems to be able to quote a reputable source pointing out where this concept came from in the first place, besides something vague about “rich and famous people at parties”.

So why do people do it, and where are they taught to be this way? I’m typically on time for things, unless it’s something REALLY IMPORTANT, in which case I will usually arrive three hours early, get bored, go and find somewhere that sells sandwiches, eat them, realise I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry the fuck up and end up rushing to get to the place at which I arrived exceedingly early in the first place. But social occasions? If I say I’ll be there at 8pm, I’ll be there at 8pm.

Many embittered experiences and mournful tweets from a lonely booth in the corner of a bar haven’t taught me my lesson yet. I turned up on time for my own stag night and my guests waltzed in the door approximately two hours later. I’d been having some fun on Twitter in the meantime, of course, but that meant by the time we were all drunk enough to collectively pretend we were a hot 18-year old virgin on Omegle my phone battery was almost flat. We went on to have an awesome night, incidentally, but it could have been two hours longer had people showed up when I’d asked them to.

People don’t change easily, so there’s no real sense complaining about this in the long run, though. So with that in mind, I think I’ll just keep on being the barfly for two lonely, Twitter-filled hours while I wait for people to show up. And the rest of you can take your time washing your balls, applying supposedly-attractive smelly liquids, polishing your shoes, swearing at holes in your trousers/pants/tights, realising that your boots don’t fit any more, finishing watching that hilarious series of 200 cat videos on YouTube or having a nervous breakdown in the meantime.

I’ll see you at the bar! (And just because I got there first does not mean I will be getting the first round in, just so you know. Actually, it does. I will have got the first round in. A round of one drink. For me. Yeah.)

#oneaday, Day 230: In Da Club

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!

#oneaday, Day 187: Flying Solo

Ever been out on the town by yourself? It’s generally a miserable experience, particularly if you’re not the most sociable of people in the first place. And by that I mean the sort of person who doesn’t generally talk to strangers at the best of times.

I’ve done it a couple of times, though not for a while. It generally goes something like this:

Step 1: Claustrophobia

You’re in your house/flat/bedsit/hovel/cupboard. You have been stuck in said accommodation for some time now. By yourself. It’s getting rather tiresome. Perhaps you’re living by yourself. Or perhaps you live with people you don’t get on with. Or perhaps you live with people who are never there. Whatever the reason, you’re in by yourself, you’re fed up and you feel like the walls are closing in a bit. So you decide that it would be a really great idea to go out. Even though none of your friends are free, because you only decided to go out a minute ago and when you texted them a minute ago, half of them didn’t reply and the other half politely requested that you give them a bit more notice next time. So much for spontaneity.

Step 2: Confidence

You get dollied up and step out of your front door. You’re going out! By yourself! Feels good, doesn’t it? You’re not tied to social conventions that require you to be in a group of at least 3 people (less than 3 and you’re going “with” someone, which is perilously close to “date” territory)—you’re doing things your way!

Step 3: Adventurousness

You’re out by yourself and there’s no-one with you to judge you. Perhaps you’ll try something you’ve never done before, because there’s no-one you know to mock you, laugh at you, berate you or tell you you’re doing it wrong—or worse, do it better than you. Perhaps you decide to try smoking, because you’ve never done it before, or perhaps you talk to a random stranger in the street, or go down a road you’ve never been down before or—hell!—go to a pub or club you’ve never been to before.

Step 4: Arrival

You arrive at the place you decided to go to. You purchase yourself a drink and find yourself a good “spot” in which to observe the action. If this is a pub, this should be a table with a good view of everyone else who is there with their friends. Or possibly a stool at the bar, where you can turn your back on the rest of society. If this is a club, this should be a seat at the edge of the dance floor, where you can look longingly at the people who are probably having more fun than you.

Step 5: Realisation

“I’ve come out by myself. That was a really stupid thing to do.”

Step 6: Depression

You stay in your spot, watching everyone around you actually having a good time—or so you believe, anyway; in actual fact they might be having a miserable time, just dancing while they do it—and slump into a bit of an alcohol-fueled depression.