I somehow allowed myself to get persuaded by friends to go to a club the other weekend, for the last time ever. Here is why.
It’s a savagely polluted night, I can just about make out the dull flash of a neon sign from an adjacent building through the smog. I stand with an overpriced beer in my hand and look out onto the wall of grey, wondering what the hell I’m doing here. A younger me would have downed that beer and gone for another one, but I’m not feeling it.
I look over to the bar. A foreign guy tries his luck chatting up a local girl. She bites.
I take another look at the sea of smoke that surrounds us and turn back to see a happy drunk who wants to engage me in conversation.
“Look at that”, I say pointing to the pollution. “What are we doing here?”
He grabs my shoulders and turns me around.
“That” he points “is why we’re here.”
I see a mass of writhing bodies, drunkenly grinding to an auto-tuned chart topper.
Christ. That was the clarity I needed. I put down my half finished beer and go.
Past the piles of vomit and smashed glass.
Past the clashing music that comes from different bars.
Past the street hawkers trying to sell me cigarettes and prostitutes.
I get into a taxi and leave. I’m too old for this shit.