By Aliya Whiteley

On The Floor

The Blue Pootle is not a social creature.

That’s not to say that I didn’t do my fair share of socialising when I was younger. I was the first one on the dance floor, simply because I could never say no to Madonna’s request to Vogue. I drank grapefruit vodka and Tarantulas – Pernod, Diamond White and blackcurrant – on a regular basis. I fell asleep over the toilet bowl and woke up in weird places, such as Aberystwyth Pier, and in a small tent in the south of France. Oh yes, I partied in a mid-nineties, great music, tiny clubs, old jeans and random snogs kind of way.

I wonder why that has lost its appeal.

Have the mid-nineties dated so much? Last time I went to a club there were fifteen floors playing three types of music, all of which involved the use of the umm-cha beat and occasionally a woman screaming. There was so much flesh on display that I, in my jeans and tee shirt, felt like a particularly conventional Victorian nun. There were bottles of bright green and orange viscose liquid everywhere, bearing names like Breezy Blotto and The Terminator.

I went home early. And stayed home for the next five years, so possibly everything has changed again since then. Mayhap everyone on a Friday night binge stands around drinking real ale and listening to Neil Young or Van Morrison at a volume which allows them to have a conversation, but I’m guessing not.

So, what could possibly lure me back to the club/pub scene after such a long absence, which has allowed my eardrums to heal up and my alcohol tolerance limit to fall to 0.3 glasses of red wine before reaching the PO point (Pissedness Occurring).

It would have to be a series of sweeping changes along the following lines:

• The Extermination of Karaoke.

Only the following types of people enjoy karaoke: people who think they have singing talent but don’t; people who are trying to impress other people who will never be impressed by a crooning moron anyway; and people who are unbelievably drunk. At times I have fitted into all of these categories, and the less time I spend in a room with a karaoke machine, the better. The world has heard enough bad renditions of Barbra Streisand’s Evergreen and The Medley From Grease for me to add to those sins. Again.

• Enough seats.

How come nobody else on the planet gets sore feet from standing up for five hours in a crowded bar? And how come they never get blisters from shuffling around the dance floor in ridiculous high heeled shoes? More sofas, that’s what I say. And I don’t mean hard on the bottom, slim as a knife-edge type sofas in durable vinyl. I want comfy. Get me ensconced there and I’ll stay all night. Maybe throw in some muffins. Think Starbucks with booze.

• Attractive Barmen

It all started on package holidays. With three hundred bars within one hundred metres, how could you choose which to frequent? The answer was simple – go for the one with the decent looking barmaid. Simple.

And then it escalated.

Women were paid to entice you into the club they worked for, and paid more if you drank more. It became the next best career path for the beautiful after modelling. And it all revolved around getting men into bars.

What happened to equality?

I want some fabulously bronzed piece of male eye candy to entice me into a pounding club with a wink and a promise of a slow dance later. (Do they still have slow dances in clubs?) I want the promise of a tickle from a stud wearing only a posing pouch and a dickie bow. I know some women find that sort of thing offensive and I know what they mean. It is offensive. It makes me sick, treating men like objects. It would also make me turn bright red, giggle uncontrollably, and buy another round of tequila slammers. How’s that for a good night out?

And finally:

• Grown-up Drinks

Yes, I want to act like a teenager again, but I don’t want to be reminded that I am certainly not a teenager by experiencing a staggering hangover the next morning. Therefore I propose that my only buying options on the alcohol front should not be Breezy Blottos and Terminators.

However, that doesn’t mean that I want to stand in a crowded club with a glass of red or a full pint of Carling Black Label (shudder). So how about some alcopops for the generation that’s lost its snap and crackle? I want to sip Night Off From The Baby through a straw. I fancy a double Blowing The Mortgage Payment, on the rocks. How about a Full Day At Work Tomorrow But I Don’t Care Any More chaser?

In the course of writing this down, I’ve discovered something new about me. It’s not that I’m anti-social. Blue Pootles are very social creatures. It’s just that there are very few places that provide the kind of entertainment I’m after.

I’m going to start a pub. How does a comfy pub with attractive staff, no teenagers, and no loud music grab you? Mmm…

I think I’ll call it The Estate Agent’s Head.

Word of the Day: Leucipottomy. The craft of cutting white horses into hillsides.

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