{19/07/2012}   Clubbing

In my rose-tinted heyday I went clubbing most Saturday nights and on a fair few Tuesdays and Thursdays while at university (student club nights with ludicrously cheap alcohol!).  Despite having had some fantastic nights out, it was at some point during the rose-tinted years that I realised I didn’t usually enjoy clubbing, it was just something you kind of did, a rite of passage if you like.  Now, seeing people going into or leaving clubs (the stuff of early morning airport runs!), I am reminded that I would have nothing to wear that wouldn’t make me lamby mutton or frump, I hate dance music and being out past midnight renders me defective for at least the duration of the following day.  Plus, I struggle with the price of drinks and am prone to disapproving looks at scantily clad girls.

I read an article recently about Ibiza and how it’s transformed (-ing?) from lager and alcopops to vintage champagne and classy cocktails.  That’s all fine.  Then I read a list of celebrities and millionaires who now partied in Ibiza and a load of them were older than me.  I am in danger of sounding like a fuddy duddy but for me clubbing was something I did up to my mid-20s before I realised I was no longer interested in a potential snog in an alleyway, getting staggery, slurred drunk, having your bum fondled and feeling rough the next day as you try to piece together what exactly happened the night before.  Or maybe I just went to the wrong clubs?!  I still drink and go out, I just prefer to go out places where I can chat to friends and have a decent meal rather than a belated, “Ooops, I didn’t have dinner.  Kebabs, anyone?”

Apparently, it costs about £55 to get into one of Ibiza’s posh clubs.  To get my money’s worth, I would feel a need to get there at opening time and leave at closing time.  To stay awake, I would need to keep up vigorous dancing for most of the night, which I am too unfit to do, and I would consequently dehydrate and end up drinking too much, feeling dreadful as a result.  I would then get alcohol-induced moroseness at all the rich, beautiful people dancing lithely without having broken out into a sweat, make-up intact.  At some point, I would probably piss off someone influential with my sweaty flailing and get myself chucked out.  I would at least, if I could remember much, have good material for a blog post/club review!

All that said, to dance like a maniac to poppy, sing/shout-along music is something I don’t often do enough these days and something which at times is just so, so much fun.  I find myself wondering what it’d be like to rub shoulders with the likes of Naomi Campbell in Ibiza … oh, hold on, that doesn’t solve my outfit issue!  Or the expense issue … maybe I should just officially retire from clubbing and save my windmill moves and shakes to weddings!


I hated clubbing even when I was young enough to go. I can take drugs and get my wotsits felt at home. If I’m lucky.

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