The Theatrical Journalist

Improv, Comedy, Women, Melbourne and everything in between.

Nightclubbing and the Suspension of Disbelief


I have come to the conclusion, as I eat some lentil soup, that perhaps I am too old for clubbing. It’s not the lentil soup that’s telling me this. I don’t think it has much to do with my physical age, as I am very young, but I think there’s something else to it.

It’s about believing. Like, Pinocchio-style “I’m a real boy!” belief. “I do believe in fairies! I do! I do!” Peter Pan belief.

“I love nightclubbing! I do! I do!” – a 20-something’s appropriation of a Disney fairytale belief.

Truthfully, I cannot suspend my disbelief. As I put on some ridiculously high Tony Bianco wedges and a short dress in the dead of Melbourne winter, the ice cold wind somehow coaxing the hairs out of my waxed legs, I can’t help but think “isn’t playing Mouse Trap more fun than this?” I’d honestly rather play the educational version of monopoly my dad bought me when I was a kid called “Cash Flow” (it’s about being responsible with your money rather than being the Rupert Murdoch of fake money).

Maybe I’m not too old for this shit, but maybe I just don’t have that strange belief left in me. This is not dissimilar to how I feel about high fashion (more on fashun later).

Putting a Price on ‘Cool’

Clubbing is the pimp of socialising. You put your money in, you get some disappointment, someone’s always crying after the act, and someone will light up a cigarette whilst waiting for a cab to go home so they can scrub the glitter off themselves. Is clubbing not an anti-social act? Think about it. Where’s the social validation in paying twenty dollars to go into a venue so you can pay for more drinks so you can finally handle the lights and thighs and the sexual desperation with a haze of dizziness clouding your better judgement?

If anything, house parties and gatherings are far better indication of how “cool” and how socially accepted you are. Plus, there’s always salt and vinegar chips in large plastic bowls at house parties – I hope.

ice cold

My current relationship with nightclubbing

Get Drunk or Go Home

The success of nightclubbing is all in the performance. You always have to look like you’re having a good time. No! Your feet don’t hurt! Get another Wet Pussy shot – because it’s sure not embarrassing asking for one of those – hey, they’re five dollars on Thirsty Thursday. Hey! That weird dude is grinding up on your ass! But I’m here and I paid $20 to be socially validated so didn’t I technically ask for this! If you’re not drunk at a club, one can only presume you’re not ‘doing it’ correctly.

Expect to see your friend’s little sibling, expect to feel like either very old or very inadequate

This is when you’ll feel old. This is when you’ll feel out of place. You’re twenty years old at a club, surrounded by sixteen year olds and then comes the realisation, reminding you why you don’t do this anymore. This 16 year old kid is cooler than me, and I’m afraid the person who semi-sexually harassed me before may also be of the same age as said child.
The saddest thing is, YOU’RE (I’m) ONLY 20! You’ve been legally allowed to do this for a mere 2 years, but you’re already too old for this shit. Also, you’re broke and the men in here are not your type because they’re all wearing Ed Hardy or he and his group of friends all have jumpers tied diagonally around their torso like some kind of warrior stripe.

All you want is to go home and curl up and wake up tomorrow feeling fresh as a daisy because now you’re re-evaluating every single poor life choice you’ve made.

Also, your feet hurt.

And you’re $100 poorer.

Don’t get me started on music festivals that are essentially the terrors of nightclubbing brought into the cold light of day.

(Image via

(Image via MelbourneDnB)


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This entry was posted on December 9, 2013 by in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , .
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