Clubbed to death

Charlie Brooker’s column about nightclubs has been attracting a fair bit of Feed Me attention so I thought I’d join in. (Though, I have to go off on a tangent – start as I mean to go on – the "glamorous friend" of Charlie Brooker’s must be Aisleyne from Big Brother. Sorry, but anyone who makes a living as a misanthrope bitching about the state of modern life and popular culture surely loses all credibility when they start hanging out with reality TV wannabes.)

A decent club night has always been pretty hard to find. The Rig was a good bet (oh, the sweet murmur of nostalgia at realising the Tuesday night’s still running!) – or was that simply because as a student I was, therefore, constantly pissed? (Although even The Rig suffered from occasional cooler-than-thou syndrome – I recall the guy who tapped me on the shoulder one night to say "you really can’t dance". Well gosh, buttfuck, impressing you was my sole reason for coming here. Now that I’ve failed, let me go pogo like a twat in peace.) Pete’s already covered the whole walking insecurity beacons thing, but it’s not just that – it’s the whole seething mass of humanity. The pissed suity office workers. The Ben Sherman’d Essex boys. The girls in tiny skirts and massive heels doing pretend lesbian dances for the benefit of – well, pretty much every bloke in the club. (Shame the blokes can no longer focus.) Hmm, maybe I should apply to the Grauniad for the position of resident misanthrope…

I stumbled across this sentiment again, from Ben Hales’ mind, earlier:
"I’ve had a bit of trouble buying shoes lately. They are normally my favourite things, but the last few I’ve bought haven’t really worked out. I mean, they were all right, but they were the type of shoes that look nicer on the shelf in the shoe shop than on your feet the next day. I stopped going to nightclubs for a similar reason."

I went out on Friday. I’d been bouncing off the walls all week and was well up for going out and, later on, falling over. I don’t think it was the fault of the venue. I just think the idea looked nicer on the shelf. And I’m not saying I didn’t have a good time. But if I can misquote Brooker, it’s nothing that more drink wouldn’t cure (OK, so Charlie says drugs, but as the only 29 year-old in the country who hasn’t taken drugs – it’s a sorry day when half the Cabinet have more experience with illegal substances than you – I’ll go with booze. And frankly, the state of my brain, I don’t think it needs drugs to shift into a different state). The people! And the DJ, for whom the phrase ‘spinning the wheels of steel’ was probably invented, would have been more at home at a working class provincial wedding.

And yes, I’ve attended more than my fair share of working class provincial weddings.

And yet… and yet. I’m not done shopping yet. I still believe there’s a perfect pair of shoes* somewhere in Camden, or anywhere else my people hang out.

I’m not old yet. Yet.

* cheers Ben, I’ll be using that metaphor ’til I kill it off completely

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2 responses to “Clubbed to death

  1. Will August 23, 2007 at 2:00 pm

    Is he not talking about picking up women in clubs?

  2. Rachel August 23, 2007 at 3:52 pm

    That thought hadn’t occured – but I’d imagine his lovely girlfriend would be the reason he stopped trying to pick up women in clubs 🙂

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