There is no oxygen in here, only sweat molecules masquerading as air. There is music, apparently. Hundreds of people jump and bustle and dance.. or (like me) are they simply moving around to stop their little toes being trodden to oblivion?…… I have taken off my shoes and smile. I wish I was at home playing Scrabble as ferociously as they play this music…..
Did I really pay for this? Ah, thankfully, now there is one song I know, I can dance and sing, maybe even enjoy myself…… Wait, isn’t this song over yet?
………..This is my confession. I am one of a select few students who dislike clubbing. Or should I say, perhaps, I am one of a select few students who admit they dislike clubbing. Perhaps, like early Christians, we should go around drawing special symbols in the sand (on the Strand? – one of KCL campus) to identify one another. That way, we could avoid persecution.
I am, in fact, a convert. I spent most of last year stumbling around the clubs of London, drunk out of my mind; having what I thought was the time of my life. But with a sink full of vomit and a head full of regrets the next morning. something inside of me clicked.
Clubbing makes me hungry. It makes me tired. It makes me sticky and dirty (no rude thoughts please). It makes me poor. And to have a good time and forget all of these things, I have to be drunk. Being drunk is simply a more expensive way to make me look and act like more of an idiot than I do already in everyday life. And being drunk makes me hungry. It makes me tired. It makes me sticky and dirty (seriously, now). It makes me poor.
After twenty minutes in a queue, twenty drinks spilt down me, twenty sweaty men trying to dance with me, and twenty pounds mysteriously disappeared, I wonder-what am I getting out of this? Sometimes (I find myself admitting now) I went just to say that I had. Then, after twenty years on a bus, twenty thousand calories consumed at McDonalds, twenty bruises on my body from being elbowed and shoved, I return home, at an hour much, much too far past my bedtime. My feet are bleeding . And so is my heart.
I am a second year now. And like the three year old me moving onto the ‘Big Girl’s Toilet’, I have reached a hugely transformational stage in my life. I am, like totally, grown up. So whilst yes, I might still enjoy getting a tad drunk, I’ll be doing it in my friend’s living rooms, or in cosy pubs furnished with stuffed geese and paisley carpets like the ones native to my distant land of North Yorkshire. And I’m out, I admit it, I’m lame. But at least I’ll no longer be pondering killing myself on the N13 at 4am at night as a 50 year old Egyptian man pulls on my beer, seat and tear soaked dress and asks to buy me.