DAMNING THE BALLYHOO ON .....WEST END CLUBS

So after an extremely stressful week's work, mainly involving strenuous mouse movements, scrolling through hundreds and thousands of interesting websites (can be very exhausting), you decide its time to let your hair down. So you round up your best buddies, and decide to venture towards the bright lights of London's West End, in search of some sort of nirvana of clubbing, which frankly does not exist in our "wonderful" city called London.

You and your crew walk towards the latest hottest club, getting less and less confident with every step. You hatch an elaborate plan to bypass the obnoxious and ridiculous door policy, like some intricate military coup or something out of the last ten minutes of the A-team. You know the lack of females in your group will scupper your plans of getting through that impenetrable barrier, two females, a poncy arrogant looking man usually dressed in skinny jeans and some sort of hat or funky hairstyle, flanked by three quarterbacks who are about as gormless as Rocky after several punches to the head from Ivan Drago. You try splitting up, going in groups of two, bribing the door staff, befriending some random girls in queue, literally anything just to get yourself into this so called paradise.

You get to the door, the sweat dripping off your face. Will the random girls you have mingled and befriended, vouch for you? Predictably they don't, the guestlist girl says "Are you guys all together?" The girls shake their heads, deny you three times like Judas, leaving you stranded at the mercy of the unforgiving door staff. You finally muster up the courage to speak, the girl asks "what list are you on? You tell her, she conveniently says that list doesn't exist, even though you can see it on her clip board. She is literally inventing as many excuses as possible to turn you away. You cant wear trainers, no jeans, no tops with no buttons, no brown shoes, no rings, no jumpers, no bla......, no blue jeans, no Cool Water aftershave, no black hair, no brown eyes, no yellow shirts, no........, the list is endless. You watch enviously as a group of ten guys saunter in, wearing all the things that are apparently banned from the so called club, you wonder why, then you realise it's your favourite football players.

Our oh so friendly door man whispers in the ear of the girl who is delaying your entrance. Beware, the bouncers are no longer the biggest obstacle, its the diminutive doorman or woman who claims to be the club manager, who usually has sort of physical ailment (usually being vertically challenged) which gives them more attitude than the So Solid Crew on speed. He tells you a tale of how it's their busiest night of the year (yawn), and they couldn't possibly let a group of five guys in without any girls, they say you can come in if you buy a table, yes it's true, paying extortionate amounts of money on a table, suddenly makes the club alot less busy and packed and easier to get into, very strange. You think, "RESULT!!!". Its the busiest night of the year, who wouldn't pay 500 quid to party with their favourite football players, a 1000 Megan Fox lookalikes and creme de la creme of London.

You promptly agree, you walk in and guess what? The club isn't as packed as they made out, the girls are not as fit as you thought and your table is not exactly in a prime real estate location. They bring your drinks over with a fanfare of sparklers and the over the top superman theme tune music, you literally feel like a God for a second. Suddenly there are girls begging to crowd around your table, they are like vultures around the last piece of meat in the desert and it's definitely feeding time. You feel like Hugh Hefner for a second but 30 minutes later, all the alcohol is suddenly gone and so are the ladies, you feel used, you peruse the club looking for ladies, drunk out of your mind and now all your friends are suddenly nowhere to be found. You see your princess, she is literally your perfect woman, after ten minutes of exuding your incredible charm, (i.e plying her with vodka tonics at an astonishing ten pound a pop) you exchange numbers and the rest is history.

We all know how this story ends, you wake up the next day 500 quid lighter and with little recollection of what happened, a terrible hangover and that girl you fell in love with, looks nothing like what you first thought, in fact she is suddenly five stones heavier and her Megan Fox appearance has suddenly become Jo Brand. The worst part of it all, is that at the same time and same place the next week, you will do it all over again. It's not fun at all, it's just vastly overpriced and overrated, I thought partying was supposed to be fun and hassle free?