We understand that music makes the people come together. But it seems that recently, this message has become increasingly misinterpreted. Every Saturday night, more and more people are leaving the safety of their homes to flirt and fight their way across London. Unfortunately, this mindless trail of seduction and destruction is resulting in widespread panic amongst the younger generation; who are waking the next day to find strange, lifeless bodies sweating next to them. But where are the bodies coming from?
The answer is far more hellish than previously thought. Lying malignantly amongst the strong, utopian values of the British barkeep are squalid little shacks, known to the millennial population as ‘clubs’. The public is reminded that clubs are no longer after-school activities your mum signs you up for, but rather the after-dark snares of a much more persistent menace: The Lad.
For those of you unfamiliar with The Lad, you have only to follow the waft of greasy chicken on a Friday evening and peer through the window of its origin. Be careful – The Lad is prone to bouts of raucous shouting and ham-fisted catchphrases that even those with a PHD in banter struggle to translate. Before you know it – you could be under their beady eye, watching you from behind novelty sunglasses, and soon taste his piri piri sweat on your fresh, new linen. A taste that lingers no matter how many times your body tries to throw it back up.
We urge female citizens to stay calm. New research has proven that whilst clubs are indeed breeding grounds for these sadistic individuals, they can be pacified. In fact, women have been proving for years now that you can have a great night without giving your number to Gazza the sports scientist. As long as you spot the warning signs early, The Lad will never get within thirty miles of your house. Learning the ways of the club can help you avoid its seedier inmates.
Take a look around the next time you find yourself stumbling through the doors of a late-night establishment and ask yourself a few simple questions.
1: Did I genuinely just pay to get in here?
2: Did the bouncers at the door try to persuade me my face wasn’t really mine?
3: Have I just voluntarily traded in all my possessions for a raffle ticket?
If you answered yes to any of these, then you may be standing in the lion’s den. Again, we urge you NOT to panic. The Lad has limited vision, as he struggles to pen a meaningful status update through Sambuca-stained eyes. Keep your head down, in order to both hide your face and navigate the rising tide of dancefloor debris. If you must raise your hands in coordination with the sick beat, then only do so when you are sure it’s your jam.
Please be aware that the centre of the dancefloor is also the centre of big foot’s anus, so don’t be alarmed if it begins to feel like you’re riding a rush hour tube to London Bridge. After 15-20 minutes of pressing up against people you’ve never met, rattling around unsociably together and awkwardly making eyes with nothing but your phone, one of you will wilt and head to find refuge in the limited seating area. Sadly, in the club, you can’t ask the man blaring passé house-pop tunes to turn his goddamn music down.
A great poet once said: ‘we gonna party like it’s your birthday, we gonna sip Bacardi like it’s your birthday’ and these words certainly ring true in most walks of life. Unfortunately, if you’re sipping anything in the club, then you’re going to end up with more of it on you than in you; a pick-up line that will no doubt be coughed into your face by The Lad late on, as he lumbers over and begins to dribble out his thirsty charm.