For some people, clubbing brings back memories of Ibiza nights, drinking and taking drugs all night, experiencing new music mixed by the best DJs in the world. For others, it’s an unfortunate incident with a seal. The rest of us however, those that weren’t lucky enough to grow up in the middle of a big city, have entirely different memories of clubbing.

Before Tony Blair annoyed the Daily Mail and old people with 24 hour drinking (and you know – even since that came in, I’ve never been tempted to pop out for a quick half at 6.30am), there were fairly strict rules about closing times. Lock-ins were legendary in the villages, but in the middle of a town, your drinking options after 11.30pm were limited to the nightclub.

Provincial nightclubs are a special brand of hell. They’ve all got names that scream desperation: Sugar, Angels, Legends, Liquid… they won’t be appearing on any guided tours, and are seemingly out of bounds for anyone over 18 and under 35.

Lacking the glamour of an Ibiza hotspot, they do their best to convince you that you really can have the time of your life in Bury St. Edmunds or Barrow in Furness. The reality? You can’t.

Being charged £4 for a bottle of lager while watching dickheads march ironically to Reach! by S Club 7. Avoiding eye contact with a nutter who’s struggling to cope with an E. Hitching your trousers up in the toilets so you don’t get pissy ankles, and paying a quid to the guy handing out paper towels. Sweating in a room barely bigger than your lounge, looking at the cunningly mirrored walls that give a rubbish illusion of space.

The most fun you can hope for – other than being 17 and drunkenly fingering a stranger – is the celebrity appearance. We can only guess what an interesting and elucidating evening you can have in the company of two hundred drunks and Gary Lucy, but we imagine it to be more fun than anything else in the world. Who needs to go skiing or visit the theatre? Gary bloody Lucy from Hollyoaks, Footballers’ Wives AND The Bill! In our town! Live! What does he even bloody do? Stand on the stage like a gormless tit and wave at the kids? Amazing.

Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to endure the crushing letdown of a club with ideas above its station: One that believes Scarborough to be a natural extension of Ayia Napa. Where the gimmicks extend to a beach night (B&Q sand) or a foam party (hired out of the back of the yellow pages.)

Of course, being Britain, we have to do things shit and on the cheap. So while the adverts may promise this:

The reality is definitely this:

Sweet dreams.

Comments

1. Sam Tana says:

   October 6, 2010 at 2:49 pm

   Is there really a place in Britain called Stives?
2. Chris Wheelie says:

   October 7, 2010 at 11:49 am

   It’s not a million miles away from Saint Evenage.
3. RubyT says:

   October 7, 2010 at 1:02 pm

   The BEST (ie worst) provincial nightclub in the UK (nay, THE WOPLD) is in Bingley, West Yorkshire. Sticky floors, cramp basement locatione, pig-fucking crowd, date rape etc etc

   I think it’s currently known as “Berlins” (no apostrophe) and in previous incarnations was “Big Fellas” (not a gay club) and my personal favourite, “Porkies” (presumably in tribute to it’s aforementioned clientele).

   I heard a story that a disgruntled former bouncer went on a rampage with an electric cattle prod in there. I desperately want this to be true but several failed google searches mean I can’t back that up and fear it may be a local urbam (semi-rural?) myth.

   Anyway, check it out.

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