Sunday, 4 September 2016

Clubbed to death

Yesterday, the most exciting thing I did was to bake a fruit cake (Mary Berry's pound cake recipe with a couple of alterations to use up the glace cherries and chopped dates that had been hanging around the cupboad for an eternity), and I have to say it turned out fantastic.
The boy, on the other hand, had more adventurous plans.
As it was a friend's 18th birthday the other day, he and a bunch of others were going off clubbing in Cambridge last night. It wasn't the boy's first clubbing experience, and as it went well previously (rolling in at 4:30am) we weren't particularly worried.

Unfortunately things ended up going a wee bit Pete Tong, and having been left on his own apart from his friend's extremely inebriated sister after everyone else in the group had buggered off without warning, he ended up with a fifty quid cab fare to get them both home to their respective villages.
Sometimes he surprises us with his ability to deal with awkward situations, especially as he so often appears to have all the common sense of a used teabag, but when all around him is turning to shit he seems to be the one that keeps it all together, looking after those who are beyond looking after themselves.
Despite all this he's still enthused with the whole nightclub thing, and in this respect he's very different to me.

On a few occasions over a couple of years between the ages of around 18 to 20, I did try my hand at clubbing, but it really wasn't for me.
There were a couple of nights out with guys from work, which basically involved a couple of pints and a curry before heading off to Ronelle's nightclub above Lion Yard in Cambridge.
Once in the club it was impossible to communicate with anyone unless you were literally shouting right in their ear, the drinks were too expensive, and for someone as hopeless with the opposite sex as I was, even a meat market like a nightclub was impossible to pull in.

I also went to a couple of clubs in Sunderland while visiting with friends.
I admit one of them wasn't too bad, because the music was pretty good and it was at a volume that at least allowed you to talk to someone without making their ears bleed.
I got dancing with a rather attractive girl who seemed quite friendly until my half-drunk brain got the better of me and made an inadvisably blunt suggestion to her.
Surprisingly this did not result in me waking up in the local accident and emergency department - instead she said "Maybe later" before sidling off to dance with a bloke who apparently did not have sexual tourette's.

The last club I went to was in Newmarket with a girl I'd just started dating. I really thought I'd struck gold there - she was really hot and unbelievably she seemed into me, but as soon as it started to feel like things were going to move on to the next level she went cold and it abruptly ended leaving me confused. In hindsight it wouldn't have gone far anyway - when I heard her say to someone that whenever a guy bought her jewelery she'd look it up in the Argos catalogue to see how much he'd spent, I knew it wasn't a good omen. The last thing I wanted was a gold-digger, no matter how gorgeous she was.
I remember it being Easter and I'd bought the most enormous Easter egg for her. I put it in my bag, strapped it on to the back of my Yamaha TZR250 and shot off to take it to her. Halfway there a worrying sound came from the back of the bike and I pulled over. The bag had slipped sideways and been dragged into the back wheel.
The expensive Easter egg was now in kit form and in no fit state to give as a gift; a fitting metaphor for how the relationship would turn out just a couple of weeks later.
I gave her a box of chocolates instead, and ate the disassembled chocolate egg myself. Waste not want not. Anyway, I digress.....

I did give nightclubs a shot - desperately wanting to be an outgoing person, desperate to be part of a group and most of all, desperate to get laid.
But no matter what, I just couldn't do it. I hated the music being too loud to be able to talk to people, I didn't like being ripped off for watered-down drinks, my dancing was so embarrassing that no girl in their right mind would come near me, and even if they did I'd only have messed it up by either not knowing what to say or by saying something stupid. Such is the folly of youth.
Nightclubs are definitely not my thing, but if the boy gets enjoyment from getting just the right side of paralytic and babysitting his mates while having his head stoved in by 1.21 gigawatts of amplifiers, then that's up to him.

"Sorry love, my bike ate your present"