I went to The Varsity Club on Saturday night. Before being let in, I was stamped at the door like a piece of gammon. My friends and I stayed for a total of three minutes before realising we were too old and left.
Even when I was supposed to like clubbing, I found it an awfully awkward affair. My mouth was blue from WKD. The music was too loud for me to be heard, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite get the knack of moving my body into a state of seduction.
My clubbing days were in the Rihanna era; she was a talented woman with suggestive lyrics. Whenever her song, Rude Boy, came on, my friends suddenly started bending in ways I had never seen before. Meanwhile, my hips would bob an inch here, an inch there and with closed firsts, I would drum the air.
Spotting the bending ring of girls, men will start to lurk behind us. I hated this. If I was a hedgehog, this would be the point where I would roll up.
The main lad will linger behind the bendiest of my friends, and they will begin rubbing on each other like they’re trying to dry each other off. Rihanna, meanwhile, questions repeatedly in background, “is you big enough?”
It was as much as my environment as a penguin in Texas.
Ten years later, I still felt like a penguin in Texas, just slightly more wrinkled.
THE QUACK 