Don’t Miss Out on The Girl

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June 2011
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Goldsmiths Ltd.


I realised on Saturday night that the reason I’d been feeling so middle-aged of late is because I hadn’t been to the World’s Best Nightclub at all this year.

It’s now very clear that an absence from this place has been altering my personality – so slowly I hadn’t noticed it, like the movement of tectonic plates – gradually turning me into a boring TV-loving bastard with the social staying-power of a soufflé.

The great irony is that everything about the World’s Best Nightclub should make me hate it: the grubby Kennington location; the rum drinks that make the floor sticky; the pokiness; the irredemably naff bamboo beach bar decor. And yet, probably down to some sort of rattan-based aysphixiation, I have never had a bad night there. I’ll arrive feeling lacklustre, vow to drink only one, drink many many more than one, stay out until closing time and wake up the following day thick-headed and light-walleted.

It is not, however, an expensive place – after you’ve parted with five pounds on the door, a Zombie (like a spirit and mixer, but more of a spirit and spirit and spirit and a tinsy thimble of mixer) is exceptional value at £8 considering one glass contains more rum than a pirate’s cave. My Sister once got so drunk on them she nutted the large totem pole by the dance floor and had a black eye for a week.

However, the most important point about WBN is it passes the Lionel Richie litmus test with flying colours. The best way to judge a DJ is by their willingness to play Lionel Richie. I requested him in WBN once and the DJ not only played the song right away, but he played both the songs I had requested back-to-back, with no concern for how this Richie double bill might reflect on his creative reputation. All he was thinking about were my immediate dancing needs. (Don’t think that because of this they play Chesney Hawkes all the time and people take their tops off to the Baywatch theme tune. It’s good cheese. Not sad, mouldy, student nostalgia cheese.)

On Saturday night I managed to reach and remain in a truly ecstatic state of drunkeness, when every song is the best song you’ve ever heard and you love everyone very very mush. When we got back to the house at 3am, Gary and I cooked 13 fish fingers we found in the freezer and were so hungry we stood by the oven and quietly hoovered the lot while everyone else wasn’t looking.

There is a battered yellow sofa in Ed’s kitchen that is built for the sort of alcohol-cushioned 4am confabs that begin and rumble on so easily until the last person has slipped away to bed. I began to wilt at around 4.30, when Ian decided I should at least help him finish the half bottle of wine someone had abandoned earlier. Needing absolutely no more, I continued to drink the wine that was poured with mechanical efficiency into my glass, only to realize too late, as I was beginning to feel myself slur, that the first bottle had been finished long before and we were well into a second. Needless to say, after I finally managed to get to bed at 6, I woke up feeling exactly as I deserved to.



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