I’m pretty sure I wasn’t away from the club scene for that long but it’s all got a bit vulgar; much like a scene from the Okavango in Botswana (let’s not deny you haven’t watched that documentary... and if you haven’t then please leave. David Attenborough. WOW. David Attenborough)
Last week I made my way back onto the “members only” club scenes of the West End. Those who have ever had the misfortune to actually be part of this scene will know that this isn’t as exclusive as it sounds. The term “members only” exists to legitimately discriminate against who can come in or not. So unless you’re dressed up to the nines like Hugo from Made in Chelsea... you just ain’t getting in son!
Whilst the drinks might be three times the price of the student digs I used to hang out in, the situation is still the same. It’s still a sleazy sex scene and just because the sofas are leather, not pleather... and just because the girls wear underwear and the boys wear suits doesn’t mean that the safari politics differ that much. Well I suppose I do like a good game of hunting, shooting, fishing.
The LIONS. scope out their prey, strutting around the side lines to check out the victims on offer. Dressed to impress they can often be identified by a POCKET SQUARE! The more sinister of male fashion accessories out there!! Lines like “oh girl, you’re beautiful” and using pet names like “babe” or “love” (usually because they don’t bother to remember your name) is common. Whilst they purr like a kitten, they’re pretty vicious and they’re not about to take you out and wine and dine you. Be aware of their intentions and try not to mix them up with genuine people who are genuinely interested in your degree major/job/charity work.
The VULTURES. Wait at the side lines and pick away at what’s left. And when I say pick away, I mean it. All a girl like me wants to do is dance away to the music without any erections trying to back into me or a tongue trying to jump down my throat. I’m not sure if people realise that actually some people JUST. LIKE. DANCING. It doesn’t have to be a mating ritual. Well the vultures thrive on girls like me. When I’ve managed to bat off those trying to grind up against me “by accident”, vultures swoop in and GRAB; pecking away at what’s on the dancefloor, especially after the lions have fucked off with any antelope they can get their teeth into and bundled them in the back of a cab, or maybe even just the night bus home.
The ANTELOPE. These are the poor girls who obviously don’t come out here that often. They hail from the countryside... or anywhere outside of the M25. Excited to be doused with free alcohol which made the predators all the more appealing they clutch their bags close by and nervously dance near the lions until they are snapped up in their jaws! Walk of shame or not the hazy memory is always one glossed over my rose tinted spectacles... To them that lion was a millionaire entrepreneur who was so busy with meetings in Zurich that he had to give the girl the boot at 7am... Not because he was a broke dick who wanted the girl out before his parents woke up to find “another one” sitting round the breakfast table.
All in all, being back there reminded me that men are gross sometimes. And the VIP club scene is just as MESSY and definitely didn't make me feel 'very important' at all. The next morning I woke and had no idea why I couldn’t stay vertical without wanting to chunder. Then I had a flashback to someone pouring a magnum sized vodka bottle straight into my mouth and numerous DOUBLE tequila shots... Then it all became clear... And then it went fuzzy again.
So if the VIP club scene is not where I’ll find Mr. Right, where to next? Should I take to the scary world of internet dating? Or even questionable blind dates set up by even more questionable best friends? I’ve got a month left in the country so who knows!
