Aaaahhhht clubbin'

One thing I find interesting is that you can get used to anything. Those who know me well back home will be aware that as an a) non-drinker and a b) thirty-something, going clubbing is normally my idea of hell. Thousands of drunk people squashed into a sticky-floored, minimally-seated arena; bad bad music blasting out at a thousand million decibels so you can't hear how much drivel someone is actually spouting whilst they spit copiously in your ear; interminable queues for overpriced drinks which get spilled by someone's overenthusiastic dancing the moment you turn away from the bar; elbows freely and repeatedly placed into your kidney or stomach; anonymous erections pressed into your back the moment you approach the dance floor; the constant vigilance you need to avoid the next fight breaking out/person about to vomit; the layer of sweat that soaks your every item of clothing that you're not entirely sure is all yours; the ongoing internal dialogue about whether you've endured it long enough to justify the extortionate entrance fee.

But.


I'm now, it seems, someone who goes clubbing pretty much every week. Much as all the above still remains as true as ever, I have found that being with good people (because my crowd are ACE), free soft drinks all night (I love being a non-drinker in Canada!) and dancing up a storm despite the direty of the music gets you through it. Photos of the debauchery (see here for latest) are traded as currency the following day, along with 'Do you know what YOU did last night?' 'Oh God no, what did I do? No, before you tell me, let me tell you what YOU did' and the rush to upload the evidence to facebook is often frenzied. I actually rather enjoy being the only one who remembers all of the previous night's events and whom the others look to for confirmation/clarification of the rumour mill's latest. And, as some of the photos will undoubtedly show, I believe I have proved repeatedly that I can hold my own in the fun-stakes, despite being sober as a judge.