Last week I went to a friend of a friend’s birthday gathering at a pub in the student village. I say ‘pub’, but it was really one of those confusing establishments that seeks to be both pub and club at the same time – ‘blurring the lines between a relaxing meal out with your friends and the Ultimate Dancefloor Experience’ – would probably be on a menu somewhere – that was if you had time to read the menu before your table and chairs you were whisked away as you are informed officially Party Time Has Begun.
Sadly, I quite enjoy a definitive line between dinner and disco – I can only concentrate on so many things at once and the thought of spooning ladles of ice cream into my mouth whilst having to ‘twerk’ (when I’m not even sure I could do it without the additional challenge of dessert) is fairly horrifying.
But not as half as horrifying as the regulars. Those with a loyalty card to Ibiza and who haven’t seen home for months congregate on mass, presumably au fait with the baffling dancefloor/restaurant play-off, march on in and assemble in their corner of the floor. The men wear the exact same coats. Why, in this age of limitless information, influence and opportunity do people feel the need to look exactly the same as each other? Luckily there was a drinks offer on so I could get fairly loose and ignore the glaring fact that no one knows exactly how to behave in these conditions, but as one girl knocks into a man trying to play snooker, knocking the ball off the table and into the dancing-nightmare that surrounds him, I can only hope he didn’t even try to rescue it, for he may never have returned.