Will’s Word On Warwick: The cultural significance of Neon

To be in Neon, on a Friday, is to feel truly alive. From its supremely underutilised first room (in a club which frankly needs the space), to its remarkably hypnotic disco dance floor, lack of good deals on drinks, peculiar couch zone, and upstairs rap corridor fit for a small-to-medium-sized family of sardines – the cultural significance of Neon today is undoubtedly immense.

All of these aspects are obviously hugely important to its unique culture, however my favourite element of Neon is the iconic smoking area, which looks like the site of a Victorian murder and somehow possesses an endless supply of falling rain droplets, regardless of the weather or the season.

Is there a better way to cap off a busy week than yelling ‘TGINF’ (Thank God It’s Neon Friday), before immediately running to join the Neon queue? I think not. Importantly, those aiming to get into Neon are encouraged to start queuing as soon as their week’s work has concluded to maximise the odds of actually getting in. Some would argue that the real appeal of Neon may be the queue itself – not only is it a perfect place to bond with others over your shared struggle, but it can also bring greater community as you unite over the fact that you are all, almost definitely, not going to get in anyway. This can be a really rewarding realisation for everyone involved.

One of my personal low points in clubbing and life was when I went to Neon three Fridays in a row

You’ll also likely be granted two common enemies who will bring you and your queue-mates even closer together: the overly eager, time-rich wet wipes in the fast-track queue who pre-booked their tickets, and Neon’s infamous bouncers. By bringing a stronger feeling of unity and commmunity to the queue, these important opponents will undoubtedly enhance your Neon Friday overall.

If you are really lucky, the queue might even snake its way towards Old Library, allowing you to aquire some vital journey juice. Better yet, it may wind its way to the nearby church where you could be met with a cup of free hot chocolate courtesy of some extremely nice Christians – though that would have to be quite a busy Neon Friday.

One of my personal low points in clubbing and life was when I went to Neon three Fridays in a row. All three of these experiences were suboptimal, though it’s also important to note that I have had many a good night there as well. That said, this remarkably depressing Neon treble saw a series of major errors including massively overdoing the pre-drinks, arriving blackout, then somehow leaving after less than a minute. Notably, even blackout drunk and led entirely by my subconscious, I had the foresight to immediately evacuate this beautiful place – what exactly this says about the Neon experience, I do not know for sure.

The remaining Neon Fridays that complete this tragic trilogy saw me carrying someone into a third attempt of an Uber, as community safety helpfully stood nearby doing nothing. And, to top it off, I experienced a sober night there – something I would not wish on my worst enemy, Steve, a bouncer at True, Camberley.

Other useless roles that toilet guys play include gatekeeping the paper towels for some god-unknown reason

One of the most culturally significant aspects of Neon is their ‘toilet guy’, who, like all toilet guys, is somehow considered an employed and contributing member of society. Now, perhaps, some may label me a snobby classist for my critique of this possibly noble profession. However, unless I’m missing something, one of the only things a ‘toilet guy’ does is watch you while you go to the loo, in return for payment. This is not a service I want or need.

They may also be responsible for cleaning the toilet alongside performing the admittedly much-needed duty of distributing aftershave to a notably distinct few who seem to possess both a powerful aroma and a deep-rooted passion for regular clubbing. But despite this position’s alleged cleaning element, I can confidently say that I have absolutely never walked into the toilets of Neon, Kasbah, or Smack (all of which have toilet guys) and mentally remarked upon their cleanliness – though I’ve definitely thought the contrary.

Other useless roles that toilet guys play include gatekeeping the paper towels for some god-unknown reason and, I guess, limiting drug use. The exact nature of drug use in a hypothetically toilet guy-free Neon is unknown, though I imagine there would be a notable rise in the use of much-needed pain relief meds.

Moreover, for those afflicted with the inability to wee with someone watching, the toilet guy is essentially a death sentence and can result in many poor souls paying for the opportunity to not go to the toilet.

Other things that annoy me about club toilet guys are when people are annoyingly chatty or matey with them. They are not your friend, this is their job for some reason – though this may just be me channelling my inner Mark Corrigan. In summary, I have never enabled a toilet guy with a tip and never plan to do so. Concerningly, the fact that half this article has been spent discussing toilet guys could indicate that Neon is not quite as culturally significant as it may first seem.

One of the most notable aspects of the post-midnight Neon experience is the club’s limited room for manoeuvre – beyond, perhaps, a careful wiggle

Anyway, now that I’ve got that off my chest, back to Neon and its cultural significance. A key aspect of the Neon experience is arriving there too early and having to wait an ungodly amount of time for the doors to the main room to open, leaving you trapped with nothing to do in the remarkably liminal and massively boring entrance room. Whether there is a scheduled time for the main doors to open and if anyone exists to decides this is yet to be discovered. Though, by all appearances it looks to be determined by no one in particular.

The aforementioned sofa area seems to serve no purpose whatsoever beyond acting as a place for you to have an existential crisis, allowing you time to envisage tomorrow’s brutal hangover and the night’s torrid financial implications. It can also be used, in a moment of clarity, as a place to solemnly vow never to return to Neon, a promise which will undoubtedly be broken since your return is ultimately out of your control.

One of the most notable aspects of the post-midnight Neon experience is the club’s limited room for manoeuvre – beyond, perhaps, a careful wiggle. The place gets immensely busy, so it’s important to focus on mastering the less expansive, predominantly above-the-shoulder dance moves. And don’t even think about giving up your spot on the main dance floor, going for air, or passing through the upstairs, as the odds of losing your friends and your sense of self in the confusion of a busy Neon Friday are extremely high.

So, if you don’t get killed by Jack the Ripper in the smoking area, stuck in the extremely long queues or distracted by the neighbouring Viallis, Craving, or Sicilian Pizza, I implore you to cap off your next work week with another magical and rewarding night in Neon.