Taken from the last time I went clubbing. Although, these stages being a universal and time-honoured feature of every time I’ve ever been clubbing, this article should probably be better named ‘The Seven Stages of Going Clubbing With Me’.
Stage One: Pride
The stage of Pride is tied fundamentally to two basic concepts: hope and self-deception. These concepts are in turn firmly linked to the act of preparing oneself to go clubbing; getting washed, dressed, and mentally prepared. In my case this usually involves staring at myself in the mirror from different angles for ten minutes. This is important. I’ve recognised that my face and hair and head is a weird shape and, rather like one of those works of art that looks like a big pile of dildoes but when you shine a light on it, the shadow on the wall is a smiley face, they really only make sense from one angle. So anyway after perfecting the angle in the mirror and doing the point ‘n click seven or eight times, I decided the tshirt selection; in this case I’d gone with the old standard green one that has ‘Similes are like metaphors’ written on it in bubble writing hahahhaha. I tell you what, every time I bust it out at the clubs at OXFORD UNIVERSITY (whenever my ‘Algernon Charles Swinburne is my nigga’ one is in the wash) it goes down a total storm and I was looking forward to Rocking The Worlds of the Kingston Ladies with my cute literary joke. I finished the look by slinging on my awesome nike kicks and my slim (NOT SKINNY) jeans, checked myself out, said “I have turned into quite.a.man,” then louchely slinked out of the door into the world – which was, at this point, my oyster.
[nb: I decided not to wear the fedora on this occasion]
Stage Two: Fall
The Fall in this case was the falling of my heart upon , my entrance into the nightclub. I immediately realised that not only had I misjudged the Literary Joke tshirt, but I had also misjudged my chances of being the Coolest One In The Joint. Guys, I don’t want to make excuses for myself but I am afraid that it was indie night. There were hipsters as far as the eye could see, wearing the skinniest of skinny jeans, Retro Lenseless Sunglasses and their dad’s pullovers. A girl wearing a ballgown with a huge flower in her hair and matchbox tattooed on her shoulder wandered past, hand in hand with a man in a jumpsuit and a checked shirt wearing a tiny top hat at a jaunty angle. I just wasn’t dressed right. In the interest of being able to see out of both eyes, my hair was in a quiff and not combed rakishly over my face. I felt a fool. DAMNIT, I thought, why didn’t I wear my Fedora? THIS WAS MY ONE CHANCE TO IMPRESS THE FASHIONATI AND I RUINED IT. My non-hatted head was a mark of shame. I felt that every lazy eye on the place was fixed on me. I needed booze, so hit the bar and nursed a lager. But even this highlighted my Otherness; to either side there were harpies drinking pink drinks that had shotglasses of blue stuff contained within. I felt like Luke Skywalker the first time he wandered into the Mos Eisley canteen. But even that metaphor was a mistake – DAMNIT I SHOULD HAVE QUOTED PROUST OR PERHAPS LAUREN LAVERNE or whoever it is that Indie people like. The situation was dire.
Stage Three: Optimism
I went to the toilet and pepped myself up. Come on Tom, I reasoned. You aren’t THAT offensively dressed. The witty English witticism isn’t immediately obvious on the tshirt and in this light it could be easily mistaken for either a retro advertisement for oranges or perhaps an ironic picture of genocide – two themes that seemed prevalent throughout the club that night. As long as you maintain the Angle, your face looks pretty much normal. And frankly you are taller than many of the midgets in here. Go get em tiger. So that’s what I did. I boldly karate-kicked the door to the toilet into splinters and leapt out into the ravaging hordes of pierced indiekids and venomous hipsters. It was no use trying to play them at their own game, I reasoned. They already have the laid back “Hey babe, whats up? Oh this? It’s just a cotton-weave potato sack that craftsmen in Paris have fashioned into a smock and a tattoo of Beth Ditto’s face on my ribcage, no I don’t support any war for oil, George Bush is Hitler, and the Russians should leave Georgia alone, want to go take heroin and ironically rutt in my WV Camper van?” schtick all tied up; no, it was time for me to pick up women in my own idiosyncratic style.
After ten minutes of standing blankly in the middle of the room hoping that a few girls would just come up to me and start chatting I realised that my own idiosyncratic style sucked. But I was still not defeated. I was still optimistic. So I bit the bullet and strode confidently up to the most confused and vulnerable looking blonde I could find and said hello. She said hello back. And we Got Chatting. And I realised that I had done pretty well. DING DONG she was a ballerina (ballet student, whatever). And blonde. And pretty fit. And she was studying dance and art at some uni I’d not heard of which meant that frankly my credentials as an English Student at OXFORD UNIVERSITY was enough to blow her little mind. And I tried, I really REALLY tried to seem interested in what she was saying about dance class and hand positions and I did a cute ‘Hey, show me a ballet move’ thing and she laughed and I was like yessssssssssssssss i rule at flirting at girls in nightclubs maybe I won’t die alone after all I AM A FUCKING PIMP, maybe I can find a fitter girl than this one to talk to
Stage Four: Disappointment
The Ballet Dancer’s friend came along and said ‘We are going dancing’ and I was like ok and then they left and didn’t come back. I considered going to find her, or just following her about for a bit smelling her hair and dancing near to her an ‘accidentally’* brushing her skin but then I thought ‘hey, you’ve already got to talk to a beautiful ballet dancer for a while, just be happy with that, it’s better to aim high and fail than to have to talk to any boring ugly girls’ so I was kind of pleased with that. Later on I saw her talking to a fat guy. A bittersweet ending. I had another drink.
Stage Five: Denial
The denial in this case is the denial of the steadily encroaching fact that the night is wearing on and nothing massively fun has particularly happened. This stage can also be called “Pretending that I’m really only here for the music”, in which I go onto the dance floor and am like ‘Oh yes, awesome, MGMT is on! WOW DAFT PUNK! AND NOW THEY ARE PLAYING MIA THIS IS LITERALLY THE BEST NIGHT OF MY ENTIRE FUCKING LIFE’ and I madly dance ironically (I think this is best achieved by pretending that I’m having an epileptic fit), do bodypopping, the robot, hop about, hug everyone, leap into all the photos people are taking, hug my mates, grin a lot, high five, sing loudly along with the chora, etc, etc.
This stage lasts at most for four minutes.
Stage Six: Despair
I know that I’ve reached Stage Six when Stage Five wears off and I wander off the dancefloor and then go to the toilet, even though I don’t need to, for no reason other than that I can’t really think of anything else to do. Also, some variation of the following internal monologue is observed:
Oh my god I am going to die alone. Why is that guy so happy? He looks like a fucking frog yet he has that girl hanging off him. No, wait, she’s a dog Damn all of these smiling happy people. The thing about clubbing is that you need to go with a large group of people you already know, preferably fit single girls who want you. But I don’t know any fit single girls who want me? What we need is for loads of people to break up with their boyfriends and then I’ll just be like a rebound wall. Alternatively I’ll just wait until I’m well famous and important and then I’ll be beating off the girls with sticks. But what if they only want me because I’m rich and important and as soon as they leave they sell their story to the News of the World or something? I’d never truly be able to trust any girl who I got with while in a nightclub if I was rich and famous at the time. This is a terrible catch-22. Actually, no it’s not, I’ll just have a string of one-night stands with beautiful but shallow women and then marry my beautiful but sane and down-to-earth PA who knows exactly what’s good for me and will make a good wife. Yes.
I actually had this conversation with myself the other nightI’M NOT EVEN RICH AND FAMOUS YET
Stage Seven: Giving up and searching the floor around the bar area for loose change
I found like three quid on the floor the other night, it was awesome
Moral of the story: drink more, learn how to do coin tricks, be indier, wear the fedora
*!!!!!!
| |
No comments:
Post a Comment