I hate to admit this, but as I sit trying to finish my glass of vinegary, €4.99 Sauvignon Blanc waiting for the taxi to arrive, listening to crackle of my inebriated friends, I always feel an inevitable impending sense of doom.


And as I take time out of my life to coat myself in a socially acceptable layer of fake tan and listen to music that I wouldn’t dream of during the day, my mind always flickers over the fact that the age-old ritual of clubbing really is quite bizarre.

The night club is a space in which it is expected that women will wear three days’ worth of make-up and one third of a day’s worth of clothes, to impress men wearing three days’ worth of cologne who they would have absolutely no interest in in real life settings. The dark caverns of the country’s night clubs have failed to hide our drunken mistakes under the countless decibels of bland and predictable rhythm. However, regardless of your level of distaste or disagreement for it, it unfortunately remains an experience which as a college student, is very difficult to avoid.

One of the most inexplicable parts of the whole experience is how reliably monotonous it is.  There’s the tense taxi ride in which you try to gage which of your friends will need looking after, or if there is any danger of you being the night’s victim. As you try to get out of the taxi delicately, you dangerously choose to caress the floor for your troupe’s possibly forgotten wallets and phones, then glance towards the menacing figures of the bouncers and attempt to gage what kind of humour the night finds them in. There’s the brief panic as they eye you up and down and grade your acceptability for the establishment, one that is so unsettling that once in line for the club you happily hand several notes from your wallet or purse over in relief to get further inside to the noisy cavern which awaits you.

Once inside, you automatically lose at least one member of your group to their own desires to find a new, sexy friend for the night, to flirtatiously steal cigarettes from unsuspecting younger club-goers or to touch up their make-up or hair, having gone five tough minutes in an apparently sweaty taxi. You may not see this person again until several weeks later in the same club, doing the same thing they were last time.

After you have gathered up the courage to do so, you order a very dubious looking drink they have on special, making sure to pay on card so that you will not be aware of the exorbitant price you have paid for it until several days later. If you are taken, you begin to try to avoid eye contact with that strange human being dancing slowly and provocatively in circles around you, unsure of whether they are being ironic or not. If you are single, you are expected to practise far more patience with these types.

Several hours of violent gesturing and nodding your head later, unclear of what anyone is trying to say to you over the DJ’s predictable choice of horrendous mixes, someone turns a light switch on somewhere and literally herds you all out like lost goats. It’s advisable to leave before this happens as you really do not want to see what has been going on in a dark room that is literally bathed in Jagermeister. Suddenly you are in the chipper and it appears that you have survived the battleground that is your local nightclub. Same time next week lads?