‘Let’s go clubbing this weekend’
Dum dum DUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM. This is the one phrase I dread hearing. I absoloutley, positively HATE clubbing.
This is actually a major problem. While my main ladies are having the time of their lives in dirtypop or floobity bop over in Town, I find myself waving them off at the pub, and heading home for a cup of tea and a catch up with my gossip girl box set.
I went to Liverpool for my mums hen weekend a few months back and caught a taxi home at about 12am. I got back to the hotel, seeked out my doritos from the suitcase and spent the rest of the night tucked up in the Premier Inn with my kindle. My 45 year old mother, however, came home at 4am. What’s wrong with me?
Well I’m here to turn you all to the dark side. The very comfy dark side.
Reasons to hate clubbing:
1) The seedy men that thinks ‘no’ means ‘yes, i’m dying for you to rub yourself against my bottom’.
This is my main erk. I’m not the best looking lass you’ll see in town, and in a way this is proved by the copious amount of old men/fraggle-rock-looking-beings that end up buzzing around me like flies around poo. I was in a club once and a man actually tried to get himself off using my backside. He ended up with a drink in his face. Actually, there’s been more than one occasion where a poor man who wanted some midnight luvin’ ended up covered in archers and lemonade when he got a bit too handsy. Not my problem, I don’t know you, don’t touch me.
2) It’s frikin’ freezing.
I live in Newcastle, known notoriously for its cold days and colder nights. God forbid I want to go braless because it will result in innocent bystanders getting their eyes poked out with my massive nipple on.
3) Having to bother with how you look
Urgh. Effort. Urgh.
4) Teeny, tiny bags.
How am I supposed to fit the necessities for clubbing into a clutch bag I ask you? I need, at the very least, eyeliner, perfume, flat shoes, deodrent, ciggarettes, money, lighter(s), plasters and maybe a hip flask if I’m feeling particularly stingey. Which, lets face it, I usually am.
I didn’t inherit the gene the rest of the women in my family have where they can wear heels from morning to night without getting that ‘OH MY JESUS CHRIST MY FEET ARE GOING TO DROP OFF IS MY TOE BROKE SOMEONE PLEASE CARRY ME’ feeling.
6) *bump* sorry *bump* sorry *bump* f*ck it im going home.
How can you dance when you’re practically a sardine surrounded by other sardines in a club that is a tin for sardines?
So am I wasting my youth? Or am I just destined to live my life as a nanna in a teens body?
Either way, I’m not too worried. I don’t think I’m going to look back at my teenhood when I’m old and grey and think ‘DARN, really wish I’d spent more time wading around nightclub toilets in ankle-deep sewage and freezing my chebs off waiting two hours for a taxi home’.
Also, I thought you might enjoy this picture of me, the morning after I DO (occasionally) bite the bullet and hit the town:
No wonder I always pull the ming-mongs.
My name is Lauren Dimmick, and I’m a nanna-holic.