These days, the high streets of most large towns and cities in Great Britain look pretty much identical, and as there are Yates’, Tiger Tigers and Walkabouts everywhere, it makes sense that every weekend you’d find the same generic clientele in each soulless venue, regardless of its geography.

Every teenage male in the club falls into this category, in fact, most of the single blokes in there do, no matter what their age is. Having checked out all the females present, they will settle on one that they deem stare-worthy and proceed to eye-fuck the living shit out of her until they have drunk enough to attempt conversation. Then they will continue to gaze creepily from across the room till the bar closes. Then they will go home. Alone. Again.

These are the fellas who have sacrificed their personality in their quest for really big biceps and a thick neck. They are usually found strutting around the club in a vest or far-too-small shirt/jumper looking down on all the normally proportioned people or doing that pathetic ‘fold your arms and push your biceps up with your hands to make them look bigger’ thing. Fancy a challenge? Try getting them to talk about something other than working out or themselves.

He actually tends to be a rather lonely, jealous individual who spends most of his evenings out looking for love. Of course, as a genuine ‘hard-nut’, he will usually try to find someone half his size to pick on in order to showcase his masculinity to potential mates. Or maybe he’ll hit the boyfriend of the girl he fancies. After all, nothing says ‘stable relationship offered here’ like sudden outbursts of alcohol-fuelled violence.

These are the ladies who dress like sluts (there are ruder ways I could’ve put it) but take great offence to the advances of any male that takes an interest. This makes it very difficult for sex-starved men to locate the real sluts, which causes them much frustration. This leads to an aggressively charged atmosphere and increases the likelihood of meat-heads battering the shit out of each other at chuck-out time. It’s as if those hot pants cause a really depressing butterfly effect…

Lads, it’s safer to just find yourself:

The ‘ten-to-Two’ girl/guy (credit to my boy Dave for this one)

The bar is closed, the music’s stopped and the house lights are on. You have failed to pull all night and now you are desperate. Your dry spell will end tonight. Basically, this is whoever you can convince to come home with you before the place has emptied. I’m not sure which role is more tragic- the person doing the picking up or the person who agrees… But don’t worry about that now, you can deal with the regret and shame (and you will have to, both of you) when you wake up in the morning.

This is anyone on the dance floor who is not utterly wasted or chewing their own face off. You can tell the self-conscious males by their tense shoulders and lack of lower body movement (unless it’s pressed up against something…) and the females by their occasional glances around to check who’s looking and that weird squatting down then standing up again dance that some of them do and are convinced is sexy (I’m sure it is when executed properly… but it rarely is). If you ever have the misfortunate of being in a club sober- have a look, it’s quite entertaining, in a sad way.

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