It has become the general consensus of the masses that the best way to spend evenings and weekends nowadays is to consume excessive amounts of alcohol and then document the subsequent embarrassing antics on a variety of social networking sites. As more and more of the population began to celebrate the ways of ‘the binge’ so the need for bigger and better dens of hedonism appeared until, after years of evolution, the nightclub was born and reigned supreme as the ultimate stage for man’s inebriated desires; sex, drugs, and music.
I have no complaints, I love to over-indulge, lose whatever trace of dignity I had left, and commit the following day to hugging the toilet and bed rest. The issue I do wish to raise though is a by-product of the three desires, the issue is with dancing.
I know I am not alone here in my dance-floor phobia. There are always a small number of us lingering on the outskirts of the grinding fracas as if paralysed by the malaise caused by Usher and the like. There will always be a few left dutifully holding drinks and bags while our friends are having the best time of their lives soundtracked by Rihanna. For us, as the minority, things will never change; Liquid aren’t all of a sudden going to splash out on a few pool tables to keep us entertained, just like Tiger Tiger will never set aside a little section for people who have no interest in Shit-Pop or dancing but have somehow been talked into going there. So, what are the options?
You drink. You drink with your friends and when they all head off to tear it up you drink some more. You prop up the bar alone for so long that it actually begins to seem like a good idea to attempt conversations with the endless stream of customers who are being normal and heading back to the dance floor. There is an obvious problem with this method of avoidance however and you’ll generally start to notice it about an hour in, after consuming twice as much alcohol as your party and commanding a wide berth around you wherever you stumble. Although, if you manage to lumber your way through the mêlée without barging the innocents to the ground and as a result being ejected from the club, you may find yourself in a position to finally let loose and bust some moves, safe in the knowledge that you will have no recollection of the event ten minutes later, let alone the next day. A kind warning though, the camera never lies, and Facebook never forgets.
Option two, you pretend to dance and have a good time. As sickening as this might seem to my fellow sufferers, it can be done and gets your persistent friends off your case for at least a few songs. It’s all about strategic positioning and a bit of acting. Remain on the outskirts of your group, out of the lines of sight and don’t do anything interesting enough to draw attention. Standing and swaying slightly is perfectly acceptable. When someone looks your way, just close your eyes and pull a stupid pose or throw your hands in the air, or some other ridiculous signal of enjoyment to mask the self-loathing you are feeling and convince society that you are obeying the social norms.
If you find yourself in a situation where option two is not possible, like when on a microscopic, holding cell, abomination of a dance floor, you might have to resort to the football fan style, aggressive sing along. In this situation every song is your favourite song. Your friends may be shocked at how much you love each rehash of generic pop-dance but believe me, in this scenario you do. Here, vigour is the key. Eyes closed, fists clenched, hand in the air to make it that much more meaningful, and most importantly, feet firmly planted on the ground. No one’s going to make this guy dance, he’s far too into it! The downside of this, apart from the small piece of your soul that dies with every feigned love of painfully bad music, is that you do look like you are trying to act out an impromptu (and very low budget) music video. All you need is a camera crew and a wind machine, in reality; the closest you’re going to get is a shaky iPhone recording and a plethora of anonymous dance floor farts.
The last option requires the least effort but perhaps comes at the highest price. This option is to just accept your position on the fringe of the populous and watch as the hedonistic dance of humanity plays out with a vomit-smattered backdrop. Here you can really appreciate the most appealing aspects of modern life; girls with trowel loads of terracotta fakeness sliding off their faces, men being drawn to the most flesh on display as if their penis was some kind of inebriated, sexual dowsing rod. Bear witness as alcohol fuelled mankind degenerates to primal instincts and urges, and grunt and fight and grind their way through a sea of testosterone and pheromones. And as you struggle to take in this recession into Neanderthal behaviour, as your belief in the modern human slowly ebbs away like the contents of the numerous discarded bottles that litter the floor, realise that you are exactly the same as them, you with your beer in one hand and smart phone in the other, and your eye on the girls who also believe they are superior to the writhing crowd. This is the inevitable conclusion that will be reached if you just stand and watch and like it or not, it is the truth. I mean look at you, you’re in a fucking night club for god’s sake!
January 17, 2013 | Categories: Entertainment, facebook, food and drink, music, Uncategorized, What I don't get is... | Tags: alcohol, comedy, dancing. night club, drinking, drunk, funny, party, social | Leave a comment