The party’s over, thank god!

When a friend forlornly remarked what a shame it is that we no longer go out much, the honesty of my reply surprised us both. The truth is, I couldn’t be happier with the fact! Going out into town once, sometimes twice per week was hell. It’s only now, with age on my side, I have the confidence to turn down the offers.

It’s not that I don’t like socialising with friends. OK, maybe sometimes. But I certainly don’t hate it. I’ve had some of the best moments with my long-term mates. Though, these good times rarely occur in noisy, twat-filled pubs.

Normally friends say it’s old age, young children, or a hectic work life that spoiled things for them. Not for me. I never enjoyed it. But it felt back then like I didn’t have a choice. It was what teens and twentysomethings did each weekend. What kind of social pariah would I have become (more than I am already)?

Not only did I loathe the multiverse of chatter and pissed-up, pint-wielding patrons, I hated the nauseating lighting, the interaction with strangers and the combined fetor of stale beer and fried foods. How are you supposed to talk to anyone in such a hostile environment?

And there then was the added expectation to chat up women, completely unknown women. Talking to male strangers is bad enough. What do you say to women? I knew from TV and in-the-field surveillance that conversations often began by giving your name.

That reminds me of one awkward night, early in my twenties, when I encountered a very attractive recruitment consultant who had recently secured a temp job for me. Greetings were made, smiles were exchanged. I think I even asked her what her plans were for the evening. I believed we were engaged in small talk. However, less than a minute into our discourse, I realised I hadn’t ticked-off the ‘my name’ convention. “My name’s Martin, by the way”. To which she replied, with a laugh: “I know, I’ve called you loads of times!”

I allayed my crushing embarrassment by zipping our chat to a close with a cursory, ‘anyway, have a nice night’, and retreated back to the bosom of my four familiar friends.

Despite that incident, I continued to join friends on various occasions with a myriad of outcomes. The night often took a turn for the worse whenever clubs were put forward. By 11pm, I’ve had a gut-full, so the prospect of starting the night anew was almost unthinkable. And yet, like the sick sycophant I was, I’d still agree to go.

Clubs are far, far worse than pubs. The music is louder and often shittier too, especially if you’re unfortunate to live in a culture-less, chav-filled town with just one afterhours venue, where the DJ still thinks R Kelly’s, You’ve Got That Vibe, is an appropriate song choice in 2006. The lighting is often more irritating, with a dizzying mix of shadowy alcoves and neon fluorescence. And then there’s excruciating dancing ritual, where you’re pitted against shuffling sweaty strangers.

And you can’t assuage these sensations with alcohol or drugs. Believe me, I’ve tried. Again and again and again just to be sure. Though these substances offer a temporary numbing of the surrounding stimuli, they’re fraught with their own counter stimuli, like more one-sided conversations, sweating and anxiety.

If I could turn back the clock would I still accepted the invitations? Maybe just a couple of times for the experience. I’m glad I’ve seen Schindler’s List, though I wouldn’t want to watch it on repeat each weekend. Thankfully, nowadays I can cheerfully say no, to hell with what others may think, whilst also knowing secretly some of my friends will be glad of the opportunity to escape a night out too.