The Martlet

Last weekend, yet again, I found myself at a club against my instincts and better judgment. I had been under the impression that we would be heading downtown for casual drinks at a bar, but the club won out.

There were several reasons to go, according to my friends. They leaned on me, promising cheap drinks and free cover before 11 p.m. We arrived at The Social Club with ten minutes to spare, but the club was still closed and people were lined up outside. They opened the doors right at 11, and by the time we reached the front of the line, it was 11:15 and we were dinged for cover.

I have tried to figure out what makes clubs so popular, but I don’t get it. Does anyone go for the music? The set lists consist of pump-up techno songs that all blend into one interminable pounding beat. With cover of at least $5, and an additional charge for coat check, you certainly pay for the three-foot diameter in which you can dance.

As far as personal space issues go, you better leave them at the door because it seems that the entire club experience boils down to the primitive goal of hooking up.

My friends and I complain that guys are always grinding up behind us, and focusing more on our asses than our interests, but we all know perfectly well what a club is about. The dance floor is usually littered with couples making out drunkenly — many of them getting to first base before they get on a first-name basis.

In the Czech Republic, the word “nightclub” used to be used as a euphemism for a brothel, and while I’m not saying the two walk hand in hand, the mix of alcohol, strobe lights and fog machines can make people lose their inhibitions.

Another unfortunate attribute of clubs is their tendency to pay little or no attention to their washrooms. At numerous clubs in Victoria, I have found myself fiercely crossing my legs in long lineups. The lines snake out of the women’s washroom, and move at snail’s pace, in part due to the difficulty of extracting oneself from skin tight clothing, but largely because there is usually two or three usable stalls tops.

As it approached 2 a.m. and closing time at The Social Club, I managed to locate my five friends so that we could finally go. I found my roommate near the bar, engaged in uncomfortable small talk with a man twice her age, and helped her escape, “Why didn’t you save me earlier?” she asked. A better question is why do we pay to go to clubs from which we need saving.

As we got body-checked through the coat check line, a girl tripped right in the middle of the action. Not only did no one help her get up, but people stepped over her to get closer to the front.

Covered in spilled beer and a thin layer of sweat, my friends and I left the club and went out into the cold. As my ears struggled to adjust to the relative silence, I wondered why people bother going to clubs in the first place. My roomie turned to me. “Hey you are up for some West Coast Waffles?” she asked.

Finally, a plan I could get on board with.