Clubs - A first Impression

Well, here I am, in the BIG city. Finally a student as an occupation rather then as a requirement of the law. Its very different to where I lived before; in the country side where the buses ran every two hours, from 8am to 6pm, Monday to Saturday. Away from half day closing on a Wednesday, and yellow signs on lamp posts declaring that we are in a Neighborhood Watch Area, away from the Lion's bus service and balding community support offices with less authority then the Lolly Pop Lady. I find myself in a city, where the clouds in the sky are as visible at night as they are in the day. The city were there are over 35,000 bus trips per week covering many lines. A city where one pound shop does not quite cut the mustard thus requiring four in a square mile area. Wow, the city!

The comparisons I make do make my home town sound like Donkey Country, as an Ex of mine once put it. You may perceive that once you fall off the orbital ring road of the city, you find yourself in a setting held in a time period of horse carts and men who chewed upon wisps of straw. Its not quite the case, but it does feel very different.

Im whipped up with the current, the fast flow of the city tugs at my ankles and makes me march with the rhythm of the city; the beat of tires on the road, shoes on the pavement. Its freshers week, where fresh blood joins the rivers of people that meander the streets. Im a drop in an ocean and I go where the current takes me.

To the Clubs! We're here. There, a flood of bodies held up against the dam of security guards. A tickle of people are allowed inside, it fills up slowly. After an hour or so It has reached its capacity. Like the bladders of those waiting for the toilets, the club is desperate to piss them out. The intake is stopped. The volume is too strong. It burns. We are sent away, the door is closed.

To Walkabout we are told. To this country boy, in his ignorance he is under the impression that this is some sort of Orienteering course. A city walk to get to know the bright lights of the shop and to witness the crowds of the homeless, deposited, to heavy a load to be carried by the stream of the working society. Walk about we did, crossing roads, stopping traffic, so much for the green cross code! The man did not turn green, however the guy currently yaking up in the gutter beside us had done. We were over keen and there, the temple of green light held our destination.

This country boy feels the club. Under his feet are the vibrations of the base. The march dictated by the DJ at his elevated deck is shocked into country boy's legs. The rhythm is strong, the atmosphere, electric, the drinks, watered down through the filters of ice and the forty five minute wait to get served. The alcohol is allows you to forget yourself for a moment. Time enough to fall into the swirling mass of bodies and allows your knees to hinge and your limbs to relax and you are taken, by the flow of the music, and you dance the night away.

When your feet can take no more, and when the lubricated gristle of your joints have given in, a taxi is called. Split by four people, its cheaper then the bus. Back to the halls we go, where we precipitate to our rooms, for the next day where we will be washed back out into the sea on the dance floor.