Clightnubs

Charlie Brooker on nightclubs…

> Even if you somehow avoid reproducing, isn’t it a lot of hard work for very little reward? Seven hours hopping about in a hellish, reverberating bunker in exchange for sharing 64 febrile, panting pelvic thrusts with someone who’ll snore and dribble into your pillow till 11 o’clock in the morning, before waking up beside you with their hair in a mess, blinking like a dizzy cat and smelling vaguely like a ham baguette? Really, why bother? Why not just stay at home punching yourself in the face? Invite a few friends round and make a night of it. It’ll be more fun than a club.

I occasionally find myself in a nightclub. I wouldn’t say that I enjoy it, but sometimes I come away with an amusing anecdote. And at the end of the day, what would life be without amusing anecdotes? More to the point, what would this blog be without amusing anecdotes? (Yes, I know, just a series of 500×375 photographs).