This post was published in my student union's newspaper in 2007 under the title "Clubbed to Death". This doesn't mean the post is any good - it just means that my student union's newspaper would publish any old shit.

Recall that magical first time you got drunk. For me, it only took three pints and suddenly it seemed like I had reached a new level of awareness. The dullness, uncertainty and slight paranoia of life was transformed. Everything was in the ‘now’. I wanted to hug people whom I had never talked to, because I now ‘loved’ them. And of course the dancing was atrocious and my stomach contents were misplaced after ten minutes. After this were the nostalgic days when throwing up was considered to be a natural ending to the night and the only clubs we could get into were those with poorly enforced age-restriction policies. Early on in the night a round of shots would be bought, which everyone knew tasted terrible but refusing meant you would forever be considered a bore. We frequently asked each other if we were ‘drunk’ yet, to which the reply was seldom different from ‘only a bit tipsy’, to appear cool.

Now I’m a little older and (perhaps optimistically) slightly more sophisticated, the fact that drinking is involved doesn’t necessary result in a good night out. Recall your own experiences at the Carling Academy or the Barfly and perhaps you’ll get the point. In fact, most of my nights out are now disappointing and tedious, which I’m afraid is to be the depressing subject of this article. To best communicate my criticisms I feel that we should go through a usual night out, beginning where I and some friends are heading to a club in a taxi. Here’s some incidental detail that might help: I’m not looking as good as I think I do and the cab driver is looking a little amused at my friends’ tipsy behaviour.

So it’s onto the club. For some obscure reason every time I go to a club I have the paranoid feeling that the bouncers won’t let me in. Perhaps I think they will judge me as too drunk. Whatever the reason, the notion that I will have to go home at this stage of the night is too worrying to dismiss. Nevertheless, the doorman (whom is often more friendly than expected) lets me in, and with a sense of relief bordering on elation I pay the entrance fee to the invariably female worker. On contemplation, a club has a potential 20 or 30 pounds to gain from me during a night, which is presumably more desirable than turning a tipsy man away.

By the way, the word ‘tipsy’ there is somewhat imprecise, but the only alternative I have available is ‘drunk’. Drunk can mean anywhere between feeling tipsy enough to dance and being so shit-faced that you’re incoherent and unable to stand without assistance, neither of which I am feeling at this point in the narrative. So, ‘tipsy’ is the only choice. In comparison, virtually any noun can be insinuated to mean ‘penis’ (e.g. South Park’s ‘the fireman’).  Doesn’t it seem unfair that the English language has only a few words to cover the entire spectrum of effects of our favourite pastime?

Anyway, we’ve entered the club. First we have to climb the stairs to find the main room. I’m not wearing a coat, because a past experience where I drunkenly left a club without visiting the cloakroom has taught me that bringing a coat is unwise. Besides, if I’d brought a coat I would now have to find the cloakroom and also by the time I get out of the club the drinks I’ll have had will take care of the cold. We will immediately try to find what is considered to be the best room, even if this means passing a bar with no customers only to continue to one that has a queue of three people depth. If it’s 10 o’ clock, the dancefloor will be virtually dead and someone will make the inane comment (usually me, to be fair) that it is indeed dead but it will pick up later. If it’s 11 o’ clock, the club will be sufficiently populated and drunk for dancing to have started. I recommend entering the club at around midnight, preferably still fairly sober, to recall the club at its best the morning after.

Actually, there may well have been some divergence between my mates at this point. Most should have headed towards the main room, but some will have gone to the cloakroom, whilst others may be in dire need of the toilet. This is just one of the countless times where we will separate and probably not find each other again for quite some time. For example, if I go to the bar and queue for half an hour I will be very relieved if I find my mates in the same place where I left them. If leaving your mates to go to bar doesn’t worry you, then shit, perhaps I’m actually not very liked.

So, what am I drinking now? Usually I have a bottle of whatever beer I can see is in the fridge behind the bar. This is a safe choice because beer is considered masculine and more importantly to me there’s less chance of my drink accidentally sloshing onto the floor. If I feel queasy or if I want to drink units quickly I will have a double rum and coke. Recently, out of curiosity, I’ve been buying glasses of red ‘house’ wine; it has to be ‘house’ because I don’t know enough about wine to make a choice between whatever else is on offer and I assume that the house wine must be the best. To be honest, all I know about alcohol is that Carlsberg is better than Carling.

Whilst queuing for drinks I look at my reflection in the mirror at the back of the bar and I am appalled at how stone-faced I look. Everyone else queuing looks comparatively alert and sociable. I try looking around a bit more to look interested in the place but this has little effect on my expressionless and slightly scary face. I consider that to anyone I would look drunk, but I don’t actually feel drunk. In fact, I’ve been keeping track of the number of alcoholic units I’ve had throughout the night. No-one else I know does this, but it’s very useful. I now know, for example, that after 16 units (8 pints) I had better stop drinking or I’ll be unable to remember what I did for the rest of that night. The exact amount of alcohol for memory loss to occur seems to depend partly on the quality of the night; unfortunately, it happens that my drink limit falls as my enjoyment of the night increases. On one particularly shit night I’ve managed to drink 24 units (12 pints) over an extended period of time with my memories intact. Conversely, on the nights with the most potential and where I’m actually having fun, I’ve gone past my limit and the following morning I am deprived of most of the memories.

So now I know not to go past this 16 unit limit, but what am I doing? I’m at the bloody bar again. From the first beer I buy in the club I will almost always have a drink in my hand throughout the rest of the night. The only times I will put my drink down is if I’m seated at a table, if I’m taking a piss or perhaps, if I’m not drinking from a bottle, when I dance. Let me go back and analyse the belief that putting a drink under a urinal risks getting urine in said drink. This has never happened to me, and should never happen to you, unless you, or the person pissing next to you, have severe problems when siphoning the python. I’ve had to look for that particular charming expression on the internet by the way, and I’m unsure whether it’s amusing or absurdly contrived to rhyme or both.

Did I just mention dancing? Oh lord. Although I practice moves in my bedroom mirror I always end up losing my restraint due to alcohol and probably look like a tit on the dancefloor. What usually happens is that I get frustrated by the lack of attention I get from my practiced moves and revert to what feels like appealing and attractive dancing. Indeed, I perform my ‘drunken’ moves when sober in my mirror and am quietly horrified. However I can make the somewhat sexist claim that at around a certain amount of alcohol consumption (not too much, nor too little) this method has actually worked. I can see that this is all yet another argument for alcohol restraint. It’s interesting that the much-voiced threat of liver damage doesn’t seem to influence me at all. I’m not sure, but wouldn’t I need to be the equivalent of an alcoholic for organ damage to be a serious issue anyway?

Between twelve o’ clock and the closing time I lose track of time somewhat. After eleven there are no more predictable events such as the dancefloor filling that I can judge the time by, and whenever I check the time on my phone I forget it a few seconds later. Regardless, around two o’ clock I will usually feel ready to leave. This seems to be the standard time to go home if the club is disappointing.

Reading back over all I’ve written, I’m disappointed to find that it’s only a pathetic recollection of anecdotes with almost no insight into why I currently find nights out a waste of time. Perhaps I should apologise for wasting your time. In the near future hopefully my knowledge of Brum’s bars and clubs will have improved, and I’ll be able to deftly avoid places like The Works’ Bubblegum, anything to do with the Carling Academy, and, dare I say it, the Guild’s ‘quieter’ nights. After all my claims of disliking bars and clubs, then, the next thing I am to tell you may cause shock or, more likely, nonchalance: I never pass up any offer of a night out.

Rather than end on such a controversial statement, perhaps I should try an amusing anecdote. Going out was a lot easier when I lived on campus rather than living at home. I could walk from Broad Street to my flat in under twenty minutes. Being in Lawrence tower meant I had a personal sink only a few metres from my bed, which was handy for the morning after. And I wouldn’t have had to reinvent the nature of Freakers to my parents to avoid them finding out it was a ‘Sexual Fantasy’ ball.

“Yeah, it’s a fireman’s ball. No, I don’t agree it’s a strange fancy dress theme. What’s that? What are the girls going to wear…?!”