Confessions of a reluctant clubber

Clubbing is a strange craving. I constantly complain about it, as I do about most things, yet somehow, I keep going back. There’s something oddly compelling about it. The mess, stress, and maddening emotions it can trigger, for some reason, make it all the more enticing. Clubbing at Warwick is definitely an experience, so let me talk through my most memorable outings.

Gavin and Stacey lied to me

One of my early clubbing experiences at Warwick was the infamous foam party. I’d pictured something cute and bubbly, like in Gavin and Stacey, where foam gently floats around below waist level while everyone dances. I was mistaken. Instead, a giant cannon aggressively spewed soap straight into the crowd.

The foam was thick and viscous, drowning us like we’d wandered into a car wash. I hadn’t fully grasped how wet and slimy this experience would be; naturally, I had chosen to wear the worst possible outfit for this aquatic disaster. I was sporting a strapless mini dress that I’d optimistically bought in Year Nine. As you can imagine, it fit like a dream, if said dream involved having to yank it up every two seconds. As the foam got slimier, I transformed into some kind of greasy, soap-covered slug, while my dress took on a life of its own, leading to several flashing incidents.

The first Halloween at university is a hyped-up affair. The pinnacle of our ghoulish celebrations was meant to be a night out in Kasbah

After escaping the frenzy, we made it back to the flat, and my once-straightened hair had transformed into a matted ball. One friend was blasted particularly intensely in the face by the killer cannon, and, with her eyes on fire, she had to resort to cooling them down via the nearest frozen cauliflower pieces. It wasn’t a glamorous night.

Kasbah: The Fairy Massacre

The first Halloween at university is a hyped-up affair. The pinnacle of our ghoulish celebrations was meant to be a night out in Kasbah. A group of us decided that, for our costumes, it would be weather-appropriate to go as fairies. Our outfits consisted of flammable nighties from Amazon and fairy wings – we were basically wearing pieces of cloth. After taking photos, we boarded the bus to Gotham City – or Coventry, depending on your persuasion. It was freezing, but I felt good in my limited attire, excited for the potential suitors I might meet.

We arrived at the gates of hell – Kasbah – just after ten, ridiculously early for a normal club night, and joined the queue, on squelchy grass, which was already stretching down the street.

Despite the stasis, busloads of students continued to arrive, bringing a newfound energy of anticipatory anger to the ever-denser crowd. To occupy myself in my partially drunken and uneasy state, I resorted to a vape I found on the floor, the only thing I had to warm my insides. The festival-like crowd had now grown so much that I found myself pinned up against a brick wall, separated from most of my friends, shivering, taking my last breaths. Tall men in prisoner costumes with beady eyes surrounded me. My death was imminent. I started to picture the headlines – Young-lingerie wearing student killed in Kasbah tragedy – not a noble way to go.

My Manchester friend describes the Smack smoking area as a “wide sewer” – but I think it’s got a real charm

It all got too much when the crowd decided to move as one horrifying organism. Barriers collapsed, and people catapulted onto the road. I stumbled over the grass, falling into a fitting prayer-like position, thanking God for keeping me in the living realm. Covered in bruises, wet mud, and hypothermic, I couldn’t go on. We ditched the night and headed back to Rootes, catching the bus from the wonderful Coventry Bus Station, where you can’t buy snacks, drinks, or use a toilet – but you can buy hair, practical! Back in pyjamas, we gathered in the kitchen, still shivering, and ordered Domino’s – my ideal end to a night.

Jäger fuelled bravery to gin-induced clarity

Smack is my favourite club. The music is fun, the dance floor is visually stimulating, and you can actually get a drink at the bar. My Manchester friend describes the Smack smoking area as a “wide sewer” – but I think it’s got a real charm.

It was February, the weather was cold, and the mood stagnant. I decided it was my time to put myself out there – an attempt to get over my friends with benefits situation that still plagued me like a typical teenage disease. Tonight was different. To prep, I decided to objectify myself as much as possible, turning myself into a woman who could appeal to the male gaze. I donned a lacy V-neck and my tight, extremely low-waisted jeans, another purchase from my 14-year-old self, before straightening my hair to a burning oblivion.

We checked the Smack queue again to see if it had gone down. It had grown. What a shame, I guess we’ll have to call it a night! I was wrong

We bought queue jumps that night– the trauma of Kasbah still haunting us– only to arrive at an empty club. Opening Smack was a strange experience, like something from a weird dream. It was loud and bright but completely empty, as if we had hired the place out for some peculiar birthday party. However, the situation did mean clear access to the bar, so I downed as many Jägerbombs as physically possible.

We stayed put on the dance floor, swirling around to Smack’s usual tunes. After a while, I spied a tall man. I’m entranced. We begin a high-intensity game of eye tag before he asks me for a drink. Oddly, I decided on a gin and tonic, which went down like petrol, before mustering up the courage and heading back to the dance floor with my new male friend.

‘Rolling in the Deep’ began to boom. We moved closer. I toned down my usual eccentric dance. We kissed. It wasn’t a bad club kiss at all, much better than my previous one in a club in Ibiza with a guy, who unfortunately ended up being 29 and, when I asked if he was a feminist, proclaimed that he was “neutral”.

Eventually, the kiss got a bit grabby for my liking, and the air conditioning on the dance floor turned to an indoor storm. It was all going on for a bit too long. I was searching for a way out. In a desperate plea, I said I needed to find my poor friend who must have been sick with worry about little old me. He asked for my number. Formal. I don’t know my number fully, so I can only assume that in my drunken state, I gave him a hybrid of mine and my mum’s, then promptly fled the scene. As I was leaving, I sobered up instantly when I saw the guy I liked with another girl. The sadness returned. I don’t regret this kiss, but it didn’t solve all the insecurities I thought it would.

We ordered one drink, which, in true busy Spoons fashion, arrived just as we wanted to leave

The Altoria saga: Drum and bass meets Reform UK

As a last hurrah before Easter, we descended on Smack. However, the queue was huge, so we tactically retreated to Spoons. To be honest, I longed to go home as I was surrounded by people I wanted to punch. However, I decided it was worth trying to be fun. We ordered one drink, which, in true busy Spoons fashion, arrived just as we wanted to leave. So, I did the sensible thing and took my vodka lemonade in the glass with me.

We checked the Smack queue again to see if it had gone down. It had grown. What a shame, I guess we’ll have to call it a night! I was wrong. Altoria was suggested. A new club. An unfamiliar place. I had no idea what it would entail, but I was curious. Upon entering, paying £10 to get in, I was impressed by its immediate swankiness. For one, Coronas were served in glass bottles, a situation that would likely turn lethal in Neon or Smack.

It was a drum and bass night, not my usual go-to, as I like a sing-along rather than being sonically assaulted. Nevertheless, I embraced the vibe, dancing to the beats surrounded only by my male friends. It was a very male-heavy night in general – a strange, accidental stag do. After many drinks, my mate and I decided to channel some deviant energy and attempted to get on the decks – we failed. Our mission was derailed when we noticed a peculiar gathering of large bald men in suits, clustered in a small area.

Despite the sweat, chaos, and life-threatening experiences, there’s something about clubbing that keeps pulling me back. Maybe it’s the thrill of unpredictability, debriefing the events of the night, or the satisfaction of surviving it

At around 4am, I was ready to call it a night. I messaged my friend to come to the cloakroom. He ominously replied, “I’m busy.” That’s weird, I thought, but luckily, moments later, he bounded down the stairs having escaped his encounter with ‘baldy number 4’. This bald gentleman had approached him in the smoking area, asking him to guess who he had voted for. Going off nothing but appearance, my friend guessed Reform. He was correct.

We were starving after a night of light boogieing and headed to Raj’s Fish and Chips for a lovely organic spread. But, like a menace, ‘baldy 4’ was back! My conservative friend had got wind of baldy’s political views, so with Coronas and a kebab fuelling his moves, he approached, attempting to bring baldy back where he apparently belonged, with the illustrious Conservative party.

Despite the sweat, chaos, and life-threatening experiences, there’s something about clubbing that keeps pulling me back. Maybe it’s the thrill of unpredictability, debriefing the events of the night, or the satisfaction of surviving it. No matter how many times I swear it off or announce my hatred for it in a speech, I’ll be queuing outside some questionable venue in clothing that’s too thin, ready for whatever fresh hell (or joy) the club night brings. It makes me feel weirdly alive.