Inherently, nightlife and where to find a good party has always been a priority of students. The happiness one can achieve from standing in a room listening to FatBoy Slim's successor, whilst having others sweat hit them in the face like the satchel of a londoner running for the tube, is dubious if anything.
I am well aware that nightclubs are part and parcel of the student experience, though I must confess that they make me feel uneasy. Sure, I go to them, I engage with the socialising, hard-partying and stumbling mammals that inhabit them, but I just don't think they are for me. Although to put it succinctly, I am not sure I want to be somewhere where I am possibly located no more than 3ft away from a potential sexual assault. I get that it is perhaps dancing, human chemistry and possibly a bit of vodka, but it makes me feel uncomfortable and as though I should ask if there is room for one more.
When I come around from the coma I self induce upon entering a nightclub, I feel like I do not belong, as though I am the elephant in the room. Nightclubs I just cannot believe are normal places that normal people go to. They are the kinds of places where with every drink served you are entered into some kind of disturbed tombola, a tombola where you could depart that night with either a donner kebab, a sexually transmitted infection, or both and your underwear around your ankles as you proceed to urinate on your own happy feet.
The DJ in any nightclub is also problematic; the music choice resulting from the choice of DJ is a weight on everyone's shoulders. I find myself living in perpetual fear that he who scratches the records in the discotheque and has his hip, hop and happening DJ pseudonym emblazoned on a MacBook, will make poor music choices. One such example involves me happily nodding my head like yeah to Party In The USA, when Topman catalogue model John Newman decides to make an appearance whilst the Britney song was on. I was both disgusted and so overwhelmed, I had to take a breather next to a couple who looked like a set of mannequins from River Island getting jiggy in the shop window.
You see, the music is a problem but so are the gyrations of the clubs population, which accompany the aforementioned beats. The dancing in any club is unnerving and being in close proximity to it I often feel like I am watching something I shouldn't be, kind of like when you find yourself on a train opposite a couple, kissing like they are in their own version of The Notebook.
Alcohol and drug consumption is a further dilemma. I don't smoke, drink alcohol or take any mind-altering substances, unless you consider drinking so much Ribena that you no longer believe your arms are your own, then I have. Although sometimes I do and recently have been indulging in the odd alcoholic beverage, there are many problems with not drinking. One such problem being that people have a terrible habit of making confessions to you, the kind of confessions that would arouse Jeremy Kyle. The kind of confessions I have been subjected to thus far involve infidelities in relationships, shoplifting and menstrual cycles.
It is all of these factors that lead me to conclude that perhaps I am better off staying at home, safe in the knowledge that I won't end up stood in a corner, able to catch sight of myself in the mirrors that adorn the walls, looking like a man who has the winning lottery numbers but cannot find the ticket.