Unashamedly some of my most memorable nights out have been spent in less than desirable venues. But let’s face it, being capable of having the time of your life in a hell hole of a club with puke splattered down the stairs and a layer of floor sludge made of alcohol and bodily fluids is testament to the effervescent characters you are with (or maybe how wasted you are!).
I’m partial to an evening of sophistication too of course – being a lady of such undeniable elegance – but when the level of class in a bar is considerably lower than the norm at least you can get away with being a bit of a tit. Embrace the venue for the complete crap heap it is, let loose and everyone’s a winner!
My uni pals and I visited one such Bournemouth establishment on a fair few occasions and for some bizarre reason I even had a very short-lived career as a barmaid there. Admittedly I spent the odd absolutely dire evening in the place but also had some wickedly funny and downright bizarre experiences that no posh joint could offer.
Within these hilarious memories I may discount the club’s lethal ’70p drink night’ where I decided not to stand up all evening. Instead I sat at a table that was constantly being filled with drinks by my friends and worked my way through the majority of them. The steady flow of booze and my lack of bodily movement – aside from the unique style of sitting dance I had developed – meant that when I did eventually attempt to stand to visit the toilet I collapsed in a heap.
This was also the night one of my house mate’s friends – who I initially had a crush on – made the mistake of deciding to talk to me. Either he took pity on the poor slurring girl who couldn’t even form a proper sentence let alone stand or he genuinely wanted to enter into a conversation. Whichever it was, he ended up sitting next to me and at least some of my blurry memories involve us appearing to have a half normal chat. Who knows exactly what was discussed but my drunken “charm” seemed to have some effect because the next thing I knew he was leaning in for the kill.
Although some people can be fickle, I don’t normally fit into this category. However, on this hazy night of cheap booze and talking bollocks I had suddenly decided that I in fact was not attracted to said gentleman.
Spotting my friend sat at another table – probably attempting to charm a man – I tried to attract her attention, breaking away from the romantic embrace I had suddenly and unexpectedly become a part of. Being absolutely sozzled, this could have gone more smoothly. In my head I was very clearly communicating to her through the power of expressive movement that I would rather not be sat with the chap to my left.
It was later brought to my attention that in reality, none of my mouthed words could be made out, my eyes didn’t even appear to be pointing in the same direction and my warped attempt at sign language made me look like I was having some kind of fit. After what seemed like an eternity I miraculously managed to communicate my wish and was eventually freed from his wooing ways.
As I spent the entire next day hugging the toilet in my closet of a bathroom with alcohol poisoning I vowed never again to partake in any form of 70p drink frivolities.
But aside from tales such as the above which I hope to never repeat, some dingy club incidents – creepy nevertheless – still make me smile. Weirdly the smallest part of an evening – maybe only a few seconds – can make a lasting impact. Many of the evenings in said Bournemouth club blend into one but I will look back fondly on some select moments, however disturbing they may have initially been.
The quality of clientèle and music was particularly substandard on one particular night but a couple of my friends and I decided to embrace it wholeheartedly. We could ignore the peculiar selection of people around us and we were more than capable of dancing like idiots to any old cheesy shite they pumped out of the speakers – In Da Club, Like a Virgin, bring it on and we would do our best to thrash our body parts around out of time to it.
As with most crap clubs, the downstairs area reserved for busting moves quickly turns into a sweat pit and this night was no different. As the shimmying and gyrating became more frantic our clamminess levels soared. I attempted to seamlessly relocate myself into a slightly less congested part of the dance floor, I can only imagine I appeared to glide like a dainty ballerina.
Completely satisfied with my new position, I continued to strut my stuff. But to my pure delight it seemed I had lucked out and also located myself in a gloriously cool area of the venue. Odd a club like this should have functioning air conditioning, I thought briefly and then continued to pout and shake my shoulders.
I signalled to my pals to come join me in the luxurious breezy section. “Hey guys! It’s so nice here – they have the fans on!” I screeched as I closed my eyes and moved my neck closer to the cooling wind.
From the mixture of horrified and bemused expressions on my friends’ faces it was quite clear something was amiss behind me. I turned around slowly, already grimacing in preparation for what was to greet me. And there he was – caught mid blow – the giant ogre of a slimy man who was so kindly cooling my shoulders and neck. Rankness personified.
Embracing the idiotic 