THE BLOG

Guidance for The Naive Undergraduate - Part Five: Nightclub Security.

18/06/2014 11:31 BST | Updated 11/08/2014 10:59 BST

One of my hipster friends recently said to me that the problem with being a university student is that there is no security. I wasn't quite sure what kind of security she was talking about, because at nightclubs heavily populated by students, there is security. This probably isn't the type of security she was referring to. However, the desire to poke fun at nightclub security instead of critiquing the job prospect implications in the graduate market was at the forefront of all of my priorities.

Whenever I arrive at a bar or nightclub and I see security, I always feel like I have ran a mile in the rain with a rucksack full of books to make a train, only to be told that when I sit down breathless and drowning in my own sweat that there are leaves on the track. I think it can be established that there are three types of nightclub bouncers...

1. The fat one who is entirely dependent upon his weight to hold someone up against a snooker table whilst his colleague breaks a snooker cue over the victim's frontal lobe. But also, if he wore a belt, a tie and his certificate strap on his arm all at the same time, he would spontaneously combust.

2. The small one that everyone underestimates but is most likely to turn into a psychopath and butcher you with his own bare hands and/or possibly a set of furry nun-chucks.

3. The door stalwart who protected the people of Wigan Pier in 1996 and probably broke someone's face outside The Hacienda because they were too mad for it one fatal evening in 1987.

Recently, I was attempting to enter a student bar with what could only be described as my weeks worth of shopping. Amongst my shopping was what happened to be a staple feature of the weekly shop, a pint of milk. I was stopped on my way into the bar by a member of security, the kind of security that looks like it's muscles were chiselled by a god, a god that is likely to function solely on anabolic steroids. I was told "you can't really bring that in here", I thought this robot with abs was talking about my weekly shopping, he wasn't, and he was referring to the pint of milk his 20/20 vision had spotted in my bags.

I glanced down at my week's worth of shopping and glanced back up at the security that would have confiscated my lunch money had we attended formal education together. It was evident that he was being serious; after all he probably has the IQ of a quails egg and doesn't know what humour, smiles or reasonable force of restraint mean. I eventually came around to the idea of not being thrown out of the door with my weeks worth of shopping and bruising the peaches in my bag for life in the process. Therefore I made the executive decision to leave my milk on the side, by the door and was promptly allowed into the bar with the remainder of my shopping.

It was at this point that I decided I would exact my revenge and make some kind of point or take some kind of stance. In doing so, I made the ultimately misguided decision to go to the bar and order a pint of milk. Yes, a pint of milk. What's that? A rule, BOOM! Oh, is that a social convention? POW, TAKE THAT! I handed over my sterling and promptly received my milk in a pint glass.

I can assure you I walked past the security who previously confiscated my milk and made sure he knew that despite him confiscating what was clearly the most lethal contraband of all time, I still got my kryptonite, a pint of semi-skimmed, pasteurised ruddy milk.