by Bobby May
As we were getting closer to the front of the line, I was going over the one thing I had to remember:
if the bouncer asks if I’m on a specific list, which he will, tell him I’m on “Brendan’s list”. That’s the main thing I have to remember.
Once inside and at the bar, I’m to tell the bartender “put this on Alice’s bar tab" upon purchasing my drink. It was simple… say “Brendan” at the door, “Alice” at the bar, and I’m set for the night.
"We’re up now, man" my friend tells me. Preoccupied with remembering what to tell the bouncer upon entry, I found myself to be the last of my group to move forward. Already, my friends have all entered the building, and it was now my move to approach the bouncer with my ID.
“Whoa mate, hang on a second”, the bouncer stopped me in my tracks as I stood there watching my friends disappear into the venue. The bouncer tells a second bouncer in a tone just loud enough for me to overhear, "you reckon this little guy is actually with these guys or he’s just following them?" The second bouncer looks me up and down. “Oh, I don’t know mate.. I think this little guy is just tagging along…”
I finally speak up, “No I’m with them. I’m here for a birthday. I’m on the list…”
"Oh yeah?" the first bouncer rolls his eyes. “What list are you on then, mate?” The bouncer stood up closer to me, an expression on his face telling me that there was no actual correct answer.
Completely intimidated, I began fiddling with the insides of my pocket. equally confused and annoyed at how well my night was going so far.
Without thinking I blurted out the first name that came to mind.. the wrong name.
"Alice." I told him. He doesn’t even check the clipboard. "No Alice, buddy. Bad luck. Back of the line."
I realised my mistake. “No, I mean Brendan. Sorry. Brendan. I meant Brendan’s guestlist…”
"LOOK MATE THERE’S NO FUCKING ALICE HERE NOW GET TO THE BACK OF THE FUCKING LINE."
It’s amazing how the hopes of a great, and above all, cheap night-out can disintegrate in mere moments like that. I turned around ashamed, with the eyes of every person in the line behind me looking over and wondering why it was that I got turned down. As the walk of shame shattered my soul further with every step, it’s easy to say that in my continued tendency to be easily intimidated I simply gave the bouncer the wrong name, which was why I was wasn’t allowed in. But the truth was: I was NEVER going to be allowed into that club that night.
I got to the back of the line and waited for about 40 seconds, before leaving and getting on the train home. The night was over. My spirit and self-confidence were crushed that evening and for the remainder of the weekend. Oh well. Worth another shot the following weekend, eh?
The train home allowed for a lot of deep thought not only about tonight, but clubbing in general. This was the fourth time this exact thing had happened. I wasn’t sure I was cut out for clubbing.
For reasons beyond my understanding, people actually enjoy clubbing. For a great deal of people, clubbing is the ideal thing to do on a night out. Everything to do with the ritual of clubbing that comes to mind is fucking terrible. In every way.
The enjoyability of clubbing is solely shared by a target demographic. The target demographic consists of the completely deluded, the self-image obsessed, and those who’d basically spend their money on anything. Will.i.am sings about these people all the time— In fact, Will.i.am and his shit-awful music would be nowhere without them.
These clubs (whether you pass whatever test the bouncer poses before you) expect you to pay upwards of 40 dollars just to enter the joint. What the fuck is this fee based on? You’re already made to pay a ridiculous amount for a single beverage, so what is the entry fee for?
They enforce this fee simply because they can. A good night out for many people can easily be achieved by purely being at a cool expensive venue to not only to feel cool, but to look cool as they check-in via Facebook Mobile. To seal the deal of achieving such a prestigiousness opportunity to enter the venue, there is a fee for you to pay, and there’s no way around that.
And so as you pay the doorman and proceed inside, you must quickly forget the fact that they have just ripped you, and every fucking idiot inside the venue, off. But at least now you’re cool. Super cool, actually. After checking-in on your phone at an awkward stance trying to get phone reception, you can feel free to loosen your stupid looking tie and help yourself to a ten dollar beer— you’ve deserved it.
Holding a drink, or at the very least holding any cup full of liquid is imperative. It’s a social thing to be holding a drink at a club no matter what you’re doing. If you’re not holding one, either your mate or some horrible LMFAO song blasting through the speakers will pressure you into dancing over to the bar and buying one. As such, you’re made to pay unbelievable prices to drink as part of the clubbing ritual. These prices extend to the males who are made to purchase a beverage for the cute girl in the pink slip, high heels, and fake tan across from the bar. This behaviour is in their nature. Though the chances of getting off with this broad are unknown, he still took that chance and bought her a cocktail. And now she’s telling him she “has to go over there, now”. Too bad. If only you had as much luck as those LMFAO guys, eh?
And now 20 dollars later and not a lesson learnt, he buys some other girl a Tequila Sunrise. And so on, and so on.
To avoid these abhorrent prices, some people drink as much as they can beforehand through whatever means. This strategy usually ends badly and early with the bouncer denying you entry, barely looking at the state of you and your dishevelled velvet jacket.
Most clubs require their patrons to dress formally to a certain degree. However, dress code aside, again, there’s no guarantee that you’ll even get in, leaving you standing there uncomfortably in fairly stupid looking clothes should the worst happen.
And males that get into clubs with very little problem have an undeniable self confidence about them. In most cases, it’s this confidence that allows them to wear a bright-pink collared shirt with the first four buttons down complete with a greasy over-waxed hairstyle. In any other setting this look is fucking ridiculous. In the clubbing world however, these guys don’t look ridiculous at all. Though completely stupid in real life, they’re the smartest guys at the club, because they’re the ones allowed entry, and you aren’t.
What I’m saying is, the dress code extends far beyond the clothes a person is wearing and whatever fucking terrible hairstyle they have, to a specific demeanour in which they hold, as well as, quite brutally, how their face looks. As your typical standoffish, awkward, looks-five-years-younger-than-his-actual-age type of guy, I have a great deal of trouble anywhere I go.
Most bouncers have serious problems. I’m talking mental problems. With the small amount of power they’re given, bouncers are constantly seen to be abusing this power, so long as they themselves get a kick out of it.
A close friend of mine and I were bored and leaving the Eastern at Bondi, though we couldn’t figure out how to push the exit door as it wouldn’t budge. Giving up, we began to walk away from the exit where we were confronted by a bouncer who was not happy at all to see us, and we didn’t know why.
Obviously thinking we had just snuck in through the exit, he violently shoves both of us before I said "NO WE’RE TRYING TO LEAVE WE’RE TRYING TO LEAVE WE’RE TRYING TO LEAVE."
It was only now as the bouncing stopped shoving us that he decided to help us out and opened the door for us to exit. On my way out I clutched my right shoulder which at the time, I thought had been fractured.
I hang out with a group of friends who find clubbing a real treat. Regularly I voice my dislike for it, and their response to me is always the same: ”It’s fun, you just haven’t given it a chance.”
Give what a chance?
I gave clubbing a chance. Several chances. I can safely say that clubbing is not a quality night out at all, but a constant fucking ordeal. I’m not quite apart of this demographic that feels the need to spend extravagantly, and be constantly judged in order to be allowed entry to a place. It’s not my scene at all, which is nothing to get worked-up about.
As the bouncer commanded that I "get to the back of the fucking line" that night, I did exactly what he told me to. Looking back at the two bouncers, I saw them laugh to each other. They got their kick out of the situation. Yes, they’ve successfully tormented a young kid a quarter of their size who poses no threat to anyone or anything. Well done, guys.
On that train home I vowed to myself to never return because clubbing is clearly an act I can’t get a grasp of. I haven’t let the events of that night effect me at all. I’m moving onward and upward.
However, I know next year Brendan or Alice will be holding another night out clubbing for their respective birthdays, and I’ll be forced to return to these two bouncers and go through the same thing. Like the good friend I am, I owe it to them to put my reservations about clubbing aside for once and go through with it. It’s just the kind of guy I am.
This time I’ll be ready, though. The next morning, I went out and bought two dumbbells, and this time next year if all goes to plan, I’ll be as big and intimidating as those two bouncers. And then we’ll see who the real fucking little guy is.
Maybe the events of that night have effected me a little.
Have you got any terrible clubbing experiences? Did some bouncer try to fuck you up? Did you fuck him up? Shoot me a response.