7th Mar - No, I don't want to go 'clubbing'


I recently saw a meme on Twitter where thousands of Tweeters were in agreement that pubs, are better than clubs. I'll never go 'clubbing' again, but I'm inclined to disagree with that particular statement, mainly on account of the fact a vast majority of those retweeters possess a distorted perception of what 'clubbing' is, as hoards of teens pack themselves into shopping centres for their much needed fix of Primark’s garishly coloured £1 thongs, choosing which colour they desire to subject to a creamy staining during their forthcoming weekend ventures. 

When it comes to 'clubbing', I absolutely cannot think of anything more nausea-inducing in possible human existence. Because, browsing through the comments in this particular thread, I found most users bemoaning the 2am closing time of the venues they inhabit. As something of a dance music connoisseur, my magnet-level of repel to spots like Oceana or Pryzm will no doubt appear as snobbery to the casual “living for the weekend” socialite. But as Pringles so cleverly warned us, once you pop, you just can’t stop, and my particular nocturnal hymen was crushed many years ago, akin to a wilting cherry under a hot spoon.





You see, I don’t enter clubs where you enter before 2am, nor do I attend clubs which charge civilians anything less than £20. Not because I’m a ‘snob’, but because a £5 entry or 2-4-1 Q-Jump guest-list before 10pm, all plastered over a tacky glossed poster, drowning in images of WKD bottles, is the physical embodiment of “you get what you pay for”. A crumpled fiver is gonna provide a local DJ who does weddings on a weekend, serving up a steamy pile of the UK’s top 40, mixed clumsily via 'Virtual DJ'. As a rule of thumb, if the tracks being played in the 'club' you find yourself in contain more lyrics and radio edits than extended mix instrumentals, you're probably in the wrong place. A crumpled fiver is gonna maroon me in a dance-floor conglomerated by chlamydia-soaked fuckboys doused in cheap cologne, prowling the floor for their latest target with all the grace of a pheasant swooping down for a nibble on roadkill.

And whilst all this is going on? I'd be standing, emotionally numb, waiting patiently for the highlight of the evening, the overly priced post-club kebab, which I’m still too sober to fully enjoy. Heading home and longing for the 7am sunrise club exits of where I wanna be. A select group of venues consisting of London's Ministry of Sound, Printworks, and Manchester’s Warehouse Project are the only trio you’ll find me in on these shores. Further abroad, allow me to swap the fake glitz and V.I.P bottle service of sexist Las Vegas venues blatantly charging male visitors double the figure females are asked to part with, in favour of the historic Balearic dance-floors of Privilege Ibiza, and Amnesia, where the iconic ice cannons refresh even the most vigorous of mover.





I don’t come to drink. Like many of you I prefer to do that before-hand, or unlike many of you, even enter sober. At £15 per beverage, the majority who surround me agree. We’re not here to ‘pull’, in fact there’s no further thought on our mind. Our time, and our money, is spent entirely, on enjoying the supreme level of DJ such entry prices can afford to pay for. The result, is a dance-floor unified by the music, losing themselves until the openings of McDonalds breakfasts and beyond. We might be ‘clubbing’ but this happens to be much more... A concert, a gig, a performance. Whatever you want to call it. Simply using the club as a home for such euphoria. They say house music is a spiritual thing. It’s not understood by everyone. But it’s something I’ve understood for as long as I can remember, which is why, this Summer... Please don’t ask me if I want to go “clubbing... 




... Unless you’re willing to ask me if I want to go CLUBBING.


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