Isaac Hewlings
Despite my natural aversion to other humans and social intercourse, I’ve recently been clubbing a few times, which has led me to making some observations from the field. Like some kind of boogieing David Attenborough I’ve been playing the participant-observer, studying the movements of various tribes, doing a light jig all the while.
What of clubbing etiquette? Herein lies a minefield of rules and regulations, formal and informal. The kinds of dilemma that beset myself whilst on the dancefloor are as innumerable as they diffuse. For example, whilst under the influence of fine beverages or similar delights, a perennial question that bubbles out of my mental ooze; ‘I wonder if my dancing is actually really good?’ My natural self-loathing responds ‘course not, no one’s impressed’. However, the rollercoaster of emotion is not over just yet. The creeping suspicion that I might actually be rather good at this dancing lark starts to take hold, whereupon my dancing takes a more flamboyant turn; this is the moment when my dancing oscillates between ‘doomed robot’ and ‘drunken uncle hit with a cattle prod’.
Another related quandary is the presence of lady folk, and trying to interpret their complex patterns of movement. Being the self-loathing vampire that I am, obviously the presence of two X chromosomes is both rare and mystifying. Here I am, deep in the zen, thrusting and twisting like a dancefloor Nikolay Valuev, only to be hit with the half-glance of a Bambi-eyed creature that is a mere two metres away. Cue ten minutes of looking at the floor attempting to decide whether she was in fact keen, only to realise said lady has moved on, into the night, to find pastures anew.
This leads me to the next problem, that of breaking into a circle of dancers. The situation is usually initiated by a friendly looking character, who gives you a smile and some gesticulation translatable usually as ‘this music is wicked’ or ‘aww yeah’. Having joined this crew of likeminded individuals, do you try asserting your dominance and aim for the most beautiful of their peoples? This tactic, though attractive, is likely to end in pain and embarrassment, leaving you licking your wounds like a lion rejected from the pride.
Other dangers in this clubbing savannah include one accidently entering the ‘Essex Pub Quiz’ in which the questionmaster always asks ‘what are you fucking looking at?’ and ‘do you fucking want some?’ to which all possible answers are wrong.
The final issue on the dancefloor is that of the pick up. Here I take evidence from a certain French colleague of mine who apparently has an array of talent in this department. A particular favourite for securing the attention of the chosen lady, is running his finger down the length of said lady’s back. Unsurprisingly this has mixed results, most of which are of such an unsavoury nature. They are in fact unprintable.
I hope these pointers help those who find themselves in these quandaries, until then I can only hope you take care in the dangerous wilds of the clubbing landscape.
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most entertaining sir!