Frightclubbin'

Parental Warning: The following blog contains many instances of a word beginning with 'c', ending with 't' and with 'n' in the middle. And I don't mean coconut.

So there I was on Sunday morning (many weeks ago), happily strolling through the backroads of Ealing, listening to the birds chirping and savouring the smell of freshly cut grass. Everyone I passed on the street was so happy, pushing prams or clipping hedges, and the sun beat down warmly on my fuzzy head. These are my people, I thought; this is my world now. And a far cry it was too, from the hell I experienced the night before...

I am convinced that the main problem with that Saturday night in Ealing was alcohol. And more specifically, lack thereof. It makes you question the quality of a night on the tiles, when vast quantities of alcohol are needed to numb you to what's actually going on around you.

I, admittedly, have been a bit relaxed on my drinking of late. Every so often I receive an email from my liver, pleading for mercy, and I feel it's only right to grant the little feller an occasional reprieve. So it therefore didn't help that I didn't drink my first beer till about 10pm, while the majority of people at the table had been drinking since 1pm (the most sober had been drinking since 6pm).

We started off in a pub in Ealing, where my friend's father was celebrating his 60th birthday party. My friend's family is Irish, as was the majority of the guests. I was reminded of this fact as I walked through the door, and bumped into two aul lads who were jovially calling each other c*nts. An English guy who was there later asked me what on earth this was all about, as the word 'c*nt' is generally seen as a For-Emergency-Use-Only kind word in the English language. 'The fackin Oy-rish call each other fackin cants all the time!' he exclaimed. I tried to explain that we Irish somehow mean it only in an endearing way, and to paraphrase Tommy Tiernan, that the English language is a wall, and c*nt is an Irishman's chisel.

Two pints down, I thought what better way to liven up proceedings than a few games of pool? The pool table was situated in the main thoroughfare of the pub, a few feet from the toilets; everyone observed a bizarre ritual of standing stock-still whilst a player was taking a shot, regardless of how far away they were from the table or player's line of sight. The whole act had the feeling of an impromptu game of statues. The funny thing is, Irish people generally don't even stand still for the 6 o'clock Angelus any more, but a game of pool? Now that's sacred.

Every now and then surly looking punters would stroll by and slap a quid on the side of the table. Various pool playing duos came and went, mostly consisting of the same archetypes: one good player, and one shite player who nevertheless felt compelled to advise his partner on every single shot.

After the pub closed, we all made our way to a late club down the road (after of course spending the obligatory half hour standing outside the pub, debating where to go next, tossing around suggestions like it was some verbal food-fight).

Jean Paul Sartre once famously said that 'hell is other people'. Jean Paul Sartre had obviously never been to The Redback Tavern in West London. Otherwise he might've said that "hell is a pub-cum-antipodean-nightclub somewhere in Acton".

We ended up in the Redback post-pub, and I swear I wouldn't have been surprised if I had looked up and the DJ had red skin, horns and a tail. The Redback often gets confused with The Backpacker (which used to be in Kings Cross), primarily for the reason that both venues were once upon a time destination boozers for The Church day/night-club (of Kings Cross, then Kentish Town, and now Clapham), but probably equally for the reason that both are packed with gigantic ozzies who have hands the size of snow-shovels that say things like 'g'day ya li'l c*ntie' and slap you genially on the back (oblivious to the fact that their hands are, well, the size of snow-shovels).

The atmosphere of the Redback is probably equivalent to that of a petri dish to which you've applied equal measures of rohipnol and ecstasy. When we stepped inside, I turned to andy and quoted Sean Connery's character from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade by saying "wayell boy, looksh like we're pilgrimsh in an unholy land".

The funny thing is, I used to think the Redback was okay, when I used to go there about three or four years ago. But from the following timeline of events, you'll see why I feel I've outgrown it:

1:30am: enter the place. Make a beeline for the bar and attempt to buy a round.

1:35am: Get frustrated when the guy in front of me at the bar is measuring out a handful of coins as payment for his round: "£7.60....(hic) £7.70....and (hic)....th-there: £7.80". Barman shouts over the music: 'No mate, I said SevenTEEN eighty.'

1:40am: Jagerbombs away.

1:45am: Amidst the crowd of revellers, I swear I spy the barman from the pub we had previously been drinking in that evening. He nods amiably at me, obviously forgetting he had, not sixty minutes earlier, instructed me to 'drink up and get the fuck out.'

1:50am: More jagerbombs.

1:55am: Hit the dance floor with the lads. Bouncer shouts at me and tells me to behave even though I've barely moved. And am by far, the most sober person there.

2:00am: Achtung: Mehr jagerbomben.

2:10am: I realise I'm not so much dancing as continuously moving my feet so they don't get stuck to the floor.

2:11am: Realise I'm actually dancing to failed boyband 5ive, and stop immediately.

2:15am: I pick up the wrong drink and drink some brown stuff by mistake. I still have no idea what it was.

2:20am: On the way to the toilet, need to step to one side as two disgruntled bouncers drag an intoxcated carcass out of the mens toilets, loudly grumbling "bladdy hell, that's the second bladdy week in a row for this goy."

2:25am: Pints of Fosters. Or rather half pints of Foster with liberal dollops of foam.

2:30am: Girl nearby on the dancefloor is clearly hammered and pulls open her shirt, revealing bra and large chest.

2:31am: Same girl is now surrounded by blokes.

2:33am: Two of the surrounding blokes are now essentially snarling at each other like lions over a kill.

2:36am: Same girl snogs at least three of the blokes surrounding her in a space of minutes.

2:40am: Random bloke bumps into me and asks if I want a fight. I graciously decline.

2:50am: The male population of the club realise how late it is and drunkenly lumber around asking the female population if there is 'any chance of a shag'.

2:55am: Everyone on the dancefloor gets whipped into a frenzy by a frenetic dance track.

2:57am: DJ dramatically changes tack and plays a slow song, announcing it is the last.

3:00am: Bouncers tell everyone to GET THE FUCK OUT. And safe home.

4:00am: Crash out on mates sofa.

The next day I woke up, sunlight stinging my eyes, and said aloud, only to myself and in the grizzled words of Danny Glover, "I'm too old for this shit."

CB