So it’s that time of year… The end of it, when we all take a break from getting ‘Christmas’ shitfaced (with a side of eating sausage rolls and Pringles from a pretty dish) to getting ‘New Year’ shitfaced (with a side of eating sausage rolls and Pringles from a pretty dish).
Some of us go out on the town, some of us stay home with friends or family. All of us will have a distinctly average night. Here’s why:
Paying to get into pubs
Of course, there’s nothing most of us love more than paying upwards of twenty pounds to spend an evening in a large room that stinks of stale beer, sweat and toilet and getting nothing but the standard night out in a pub (but busier) in return.
The real bonus is: you get to spend the evening with mugs who are willing to pay upwards of twenty pounds to spend an evening in a pub. That has angry bouncers making sure nobody enjoys themselves too much. And only sells shit lager and vinegary cider… Where do I buy my ticket?
Millions of hack-churned online articles about blogging will tell you never to acknowledge a gap in your writing. But here at TWTN, we (meaning… me) take convention and ignore it like the nutter on the bus.
It’s been a while, eh gang?
Apologies, rant-fans, but sometimes paid work, website redesigns and graduation ceremonies (that’s right- fully certified Master of the Arts now, bitches) get in the way of writing about random subjects for no real reason at all…
But here we are. So forget all this ‘listen to this’ and ‘you should check out this’ music rubbish I’ve been doing, my reader checks in to read badly researched (if researched at all) bemoaning of this tiny island clusterfuck we know as Great Britain, right? Fuck yeah!
You’re in luck this week. I’ve decided I don’t like dinner parties… YAY!!! Continue reading →
Drugs. Apart from ‘Big Fat Gypsy Weddings’ and whether Lady Gaga is bangable or not, nothing divides opinion more. Unfortunately, no subject seems to bypass rationality and common sense quite like the whole narcotic prohibition debate either.
Of course it makes good copy when some bell-end who can’t handle their shit takes something and dies but that doesn’t account for the millions of people who take some form of drug every weekend and have what can only be described as ‘a really fucking good time’. I’ll let Bill Hicks get the point across better.
Anyway, here’s some of things people who still deny the fact that drug prohibition has failed screech irrationally whenever the subject comes up:
So that’s it. My Master’s Degree is finished. Goodbye student life. Real world… I’m ba-ack!
Of course, once all my work was handed in there was only one place to go. That’s right; the battle-cruiser. Once the hub of local communities, the public house is a dying breed. Thanks to the same corporate money-grabbing that has infected this country’s high streets and nightclubs, rather than warm welcomes, local ales and ciders and proper pub-grub, you tend to get cold stares, mass-produced fizzy-piss and microwaved roast dinners. Thank you, JD Wetherspoon.
Just think, there’s a generation of drinkers that have no idea what a meat raffle is. For shame, Great Britain. For shame.
Sorry, apparently I mean doorman. If they weren’t paid to be there, these fellas would probably fall into The muscle-man category. Or they’d be The hard man. It’s a pretty cushy number really; the uniform’s simple (shirt, leather jacket, shaved head, chewing-gum, scowl), you get to be rude and disrespectful to your customers and if you’re really lucky, you get to assault a few of them too! Fancy dabbling in a bit of sexual-predatoriness while you’re at work? Well, you’re in luck again! There’s literally dozens of teenage girls for you to take advantage of and best of all, they’re drunk, view you as an authority figure and (for some reason) are desperate to get inside…
These are usually (but not exclusively) the unattractive friends of the person you’ve finally managed to strike up a conversation or dance with. The most popular tactics include:
needless aggression- this can range from physically getting between you and your potential mate and forcing you away, to constant referrals to their friend’s ex and how fantastic or big and muscly he/she is.
feigning illness- usually declared once you’ve managed to get their number or a cheeky kiss. This ensures that everyone will be going home just as alone as them.
This usually continues until their friend succumbs and leaves either you or the club.
Unless someone pays attention to them, of course… Which is when you should deploy:
The wingman (or ‘They who take one for the team‘)
A good wingman (or woman indeed) will draw the cock-blocker’s attention away from you by waving something shiny in their face or more typically, feigning sexual interest. If circumstances dictate that they have to ‘seal the deal’ as it were, you must return the favour in future, wingmen can very easily turn into cock-blockers themselves…
So just remember, people: no-one can make sure you stay celibate quite like your best friends…
The old person
If it’s a woman- she’s probably with a hen party and it’s likely there’s a few more floating around somewhere. If it’s a bloke, then let’s face it… It’s creepy as fuck. They may have come with their kid for an ironic visit, but this is rarely the case. Normally leather jacket clad and unfeasibly sweaty, you either find them at the bar trying to chat up anything that stands next to them, or standing near the edge of the dance floor looking a bit rapey. Young ladies- avoid. Young men- avoid becoming them. There’s nothing cool about going clubbing in your 50s.
The personal-space invader
Whether you’re queuing at the bar or throwing some shapes on the dance floor, this is the person that always finds a way to rub an inappropriate body part on you. Any other time or place and this person would be on a register in seconds. Male personal space invaders are also found in the toilets. They’re the weirdo that tries to start a conversation with the person next to them at the urinal.
And speaking of toilets:
The bog troll
You hear them before you see them.
‘Freshen up for the punani!’
Bog trolls lurk near the sinks, fiercely guarding their stash of lollipops and cheap fragrances while handing out the most expensive paper towels in the universe. I’m not one to knock the way people make their living (…!) but £1 for a Chub-a-chup? You can fuck right off.
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.
Some of the usual suspects at these weekly meat-markets include:
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.
The ‘hard’ man
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.
The self-conscious dancer
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.