My dancing shoe - your arse

Dance Clubs...

I hate them... I know, I know... It is probably because I just don’t "get" them.

Bill Hicks once said: ”I go to nightclubs once a year just to justify the other 364 days of the year by going: ’You idiots!’”.

That’s my credo. What the hell is so amusing about dance clubs? The music? It’s shit. A DJ stealing a Stevie Wonder tune and adding someone else’s bass line is not exactly a musician you know.

It has no soul and is too fucking loud to allow you to have a normal conversation. It takes you three bloody minutes, playing advanced charades (”No, two syllables! First one sounds like...”), to explain to your mate that you're off to the toilet and can he please watch your drink so no perverted faggot bastard looking for an easy lay slips you the knock out drops?

Talking to a woman? Forget it... Screaming more like it... What kind of ”first impression” does that make anyway? ”HI!!! I’M JOE!!! WHAT’S YOUR NAME???!!!” Read her lips and you might just work out her name to be shorter than Anastacia but longer than Ruth.

But who cares about a name anyway? You just want to drag her home, pull a pillow over her face and get going, right? Don’t… Who is this effigy of a dancing monkey anyway? What does she want? You? Your pathetic Gin & Tonics? Somewhere to sleep? I know, we have all wasted both our times uttering the most pathetic monologues to follow that girl home, or to make her come to your place. If you do talk her into it chances are she does this sort of thing as often as you do. So, if she shags around as much as you do and is as cheap as the drinks you bought her, why do you insist on calling it a conquest? She could be a walking Petri dish of different venerial diseases. ”Spin the wheel, boy… What's your lucky pick…? Iiiiiiiiit’s gonorreah! Hooray!”

Shit mate... I guess I have just been there, done that and got the t-shirt one too many times.

I'll tell you why you go there. You have no willpower and you are in a constant denial over past experiences. You spend far more money than it’s worth:

£6 Getting there

£12 Warming up with a few drinks at the pub next door

£15 Admission fee

£5 Wardrobe

£7 Vodka & Red Bull

That’s £45 and you’re not even drunk yet. Every time when you wake up the day after one of these silly visits to the dance palace, you look into your wallet and it hurts. More than your head does.

Maybe you go there for other reasons. To get the full effect of the drugs you just bought… To engage in one misery to endure another is like shooting yourself to get rid of a headache.

“Hey Joe, wanna come to a nightclub?” –No, I don’t. They were built to let cavemen, sluts, drug dealers and people with poor taste in music consort and participate in a night of waste. Hell, I think I will come along only to lock the doors from the outside. Anyone got a match?

Well, some people seem to enjoy it. I’m not them. Nightclubs… fuck… I just don’t get it. Some girls like to explain their visits with a shrug and a “But I like to dance…” Do you now? Why is it then that you have been standing here at the bar all this time to get free drinks chatting to the DJ all night? Dance, bitch, dance! (Not that girls perform much of a dance anyway. They just enjoy watching the boys trying to impress them with the dance steps I taught them.)

Dance clubs… Just pisses me right off…

Cheers.