Throwing Shapes in the Church of Dance
Nightclubs. The church of liars and fakes. One of the most compelling and nonsensical places on earth is the common, popular nightclub. It boggles the mind, y’know?
Considered a principal venue for congregating with new, unfamiliar people with the hopes of slipping them a fast one, getting them into the sack and cutting up the rug with the No-Pants-Dance. But how? These establishments are some of the loudest places on earth. If it’s not the face-pummelling hardcore trance anthems that are forcing their way to your ear drums with bulldozers, then it could well be the tipsy, mindless punters screaming slurred versions of their favourite drinks at the bar staff. Either way, I’m not entirely sure how you’re supposed to introduce yourself to a possible Mr or Mrs Right when there’s village-destroying beats smashing their way through your nervous system. I’ve occasionally overheard the slick-haired, shiny-shirted students talking a big game to the orange-skinned, bleached-scalped airheads with less clothes on than the day they were born in these clubs. These guys have got the full package. They are doctors, driving Corvettes living in Penthouse suites who just happen to be “Just crashing at my mates student digs this weekend” so the victim of the conversation will be blind to his fictional job, car and house. But hey, as long as he dips the solider in the egg, right? The things people will do for sex, eh? And it all happens in this nightclub, somehow audible over the DJ’s wank-fest tracklisting. Not certain how. Maybe he just screams this bullshit speel straight into her ear at the top of his grunting voice. He may be a “doctor” but he’s ignorant of the cause and effect of tinnitus. Cheers, Mr Big Shot.
Once you’re past the passport-checking bouncer and through the doors, then that is it. Not a single word of truth is uttered ever again until you are back home, laying on a hardwood floor, making an angel silhouette out of your own sick. You buy them a drink, you make up some absolute horse shit about how great you are, and as long as you don’t look like you’ve had a stroke when you’re dancing to some song by Basement Jacks with her, then you have won. Congratulations! And what have you won? 2 and a half minutes of drunken, purposely condom-less rubbing together, the moaning of someone elses name and the loudest collective snoring in that particular building. 6 hours later, you’re in a bit of a pickle. You can either gather your clothes in your hands and tip-toe out of their flat and down the stairs relinquishing all embarrassment from the fact that you’re putting on 2-day-old Transformers boxer shorts in the middle of the street, or you can share with her the most awkward breakfast sitting you’ll ever experience in your life. You both cannot stomach looking at each other. Do you know their name? Like hell you do. You didn’t even think it was possible to eat cereal so fast.
And then there comes the last lie of the endeavour. You’re late for work and you have to go. It’s a Sunday, and you were out on the razz with ‘the lads’ the night before, knowing you had “work” the next day? There’s no work. She knows you’re lying, but she realises now, outside of her drunken stupor that taking home the phoney quack was the worst idea she’s had since the weekend before when she brought home her very own world-famous footballer. She’s not the sharpest tool in the box, but as long as she gets a tool her box, this dame will believe anything. Eh-Neh-Theh!
So, I believe, in thorough conclusion, that a strict NO-TALKING policy should be introduced practically EVERYWHERE ON EARTH. No excuses. No exclusions. No nothing. Just pure prevention. Like an Earth sized condom. Or maybe the silence could be compared to some kind of library-prison. Metaphors are hard.
