Sleeping Under Enon

solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris

The Lair Of Captain Cockend

 

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Coming to a Facebook profile of every party-goer soon. Image via Wikipedia

 

So this post has come later than I would have hoped, but truth be told I wasn’t entirely sure what I wanted to write about until now and I didn’t want to just write a post whose sole purpose was simply to be a new post that was around 800 words. So, between reading various articles about intentionality being the mark of the mental, I have snuck onto WordPress to rant about Vodka Revolution as a ploy to cover up my obvious lacking when it comes to ‘having a good time’.

Just to be sure, you did read that right. I ended up in Vodka Revolutions on a Saturday night. It wasn’t my idea, mind, it was my housemate’s birthday and he wanted to celebrate. It just so happens that his idea of ‘celebrate’ is much more extrovert than mine. Whilst my idea of celebrating something is to go to a quiet, real-ale pub with a few good friends, his is to go to a place (or several) that will facilitate the need to take as much anger out on his liver as possible. Or that’s what I gather (he may read this so I’ll probably find out -Happy Birthday James!).

For those who have never been to Vodka Revolution, or have and don’t share my perspective on life (which will be nearly everyone), let me try and paint a picture for you. Vodka Revolution is a chain bar that you usually find in most cities in England (I’m not sure if you find them elsewhere), and they’ve chosen a rather generous take on communist Russia as their aesthetic. It’s the type of club that is so against the idea of conversation (perhaps because it inhibits time you could otherwise spend downing ludicrous amounts of spirits) that the volume is high enough to be classed as a form of mild torture playing music that descriptively sits between ‘a cacophony of car alarms’ and ‘the war cry of the Decepticons’. I’m well aware that most people would class most of the music I listen to as unfavourably as I have done here, but I’m right and they’re wrong. Clearly.

The guys fit into two categories, generally speaking. The first are 20-somethings that would describe themselves on their Facebook page as ‘Well up for a laugh, totally mad for it’, and probably have a traffic cone and can of Fosters somewhere in their profile picture. The other half of the men consist of older guys that are still intent on chasing girls that are barely out their teen years, which usually means they act just as cunty as their younger peers but instead of seeming like 20 year old testosterone-fuelled bags of toss, they come across as middle-aged bankers ‘cutting loose’. This is another way of saying they try too hard, shout more than is necessary and end up being Danny Dyer-plays-cheeky-Jack-the-lad-Danny Dyer-in-every-fucking-film-he’s-ever-fucking-in clones.

The floor acts like a fly trap, which either says something about the kind of clientèle the managers expect to turn up or that staff policy is to try to ensure customers never leave unless it’s via an ambulance. To be honest, this second possibility is rather unnecessary because, although this might just be me, upon entering you want to drink yourself into a coma and stay there anyway. But like I said, that might just be me.

One girl sitting a few feet from me screamed at one of the males fitting the second category ‘I’M EIGHTEEN!’, which made witnessing the whole sleazy guy act somewhat more unnerving to watch. However, if that girl’s aspiration for the night was to be another notch on some godforsaken belt, then she was very much in with a chance from the looks of the five middle aged guys circling her and her friend like slightly retarded sharks. To the left of that group and on what was the makeshift dance floor (i.e. a foot of floorspace not occupied by thirty people), were two prime examples of the ‘blonde bimbo’ stereotype, dancing in such a way as to make them appear to have been plucked straight from the opening sequence of Nightmare Before Christmas. All this was set to the sweet sounds of a predictable bass line with interspersions of an auto-tuned voice saying ‘Barbara Streisand’ (not a joke). Every now and again they ceased their ululations to pose for over-dramatized camera shots. I’m not sure what the purpose of this was. Their weird sullen expressions (which I think was supposed to be sexy but the vast amounts of makeup seemed to weight their faces down making sustained sultry looks impossible) warped into smiles larger than the gulf of Mexico. This seems to be a trending phenomena. Why? No-one is that overjoyed in the club, everyone seems to have some vaguely self destructive goal giving the overall atmosphere a grim tinge (the rest being filled with an overabundance of sexual desperation). Nor are they literally always arm-in-arm with their friends and the camera just happened to take a snapshot of an evening that was faithfully captured on film. This obsession of sloshing a fake gloss on evenings seems almost sickening in its calculations. As if everyone and their dog is a self-styled Max Clifford deftly giving their other friends who didn’t go the impression of a wonderful night, via the medium of a billion and one Facebook albums seemingly dedicated to mass delusion.

Admittedly convincing others you had a great night when you fail to remember any of it, spent half the night being hit on by Captian Cockend with his legion of accomplices and probably ended up drunk dialing a friend whilst bawling your eyes out is a difficult task. Unless they think the same way as you. In which case, why bother with the carefully crafted pictures?

That, or I’m a killjoy.

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