Tuesday, August 17, 2010
I don’t go clubbing much these days. I did a lot (a lot) of partying at varsity, suffice to say my need for raucous nights out has lessened somewhat. But a girl does like to venture out and squeak some takkie now and then. Saturday turned out to be one of those cut-a-rug nights.
Where there is booze, bitches and low-self-esteem, there will be a shameless search for any platform on which to display T&A. Whether it’s good T&A is irrelevant. In fact, it’s usually a prerequisite that any chick dancing on stage in a club needs to be well off her arse or butt-ugly. I was very amused by the fact that on Saturday night at Clapham Gold (in Fourways, JHB) the person hogging the stage was a lad, clad in his orange golf shirt and white fedora. And he was jamming like there were dollar bills to be made. Unfortunately he lost the dance-off to some bloody pirate, but that’s another story. (Yea, there were pirates there. About fifty of them.)
But of course, as the night moves on, so does the booze. And within mere minutes the girls were clawing their way onto the stages (plural) to show us what their mammas gave them. Which in one case was a giant arse that wiggled like two pigs wrestling in a blanket. At one stage there was even a chick up there all on her own. Doing that half-ass effort ‘dancing’, where she swayed unenthused, barely making the effort to lift her arms. I would love to say she was too tanked to move, but no. she just sucked at life.
I’d have to admit I’ve been there. Not often. And when I did make a concerted effort to humiliate myself I was always shitfaced enough to think it was awesome. And nineteen. But even then, I still thought to myself: ‘What are these girls thinking? That everyone’s looking up at them going “yeah baby! You got the moves! I’m gonna marry you and impregnate you one day!”?’ We all know that’s not what we’re thinking. At all. We’re thinking: “Oh lord, that girl is wearing a frilly pink top and denim shorts in a club. And this is no foam party.” Or, “Is that chick pregnant or plus one man-boep?” And neither answer would make the wannabe-stripper antics permissible. (And I’m not kidding – this chick had THEE most unflattering pink, baggy strapless top hanging from her boobs. And there was definitely a very watery baby hiding in there, wobbling around to bad old school songs. Or, she’d given birth the same day and hadn’t quite finished ridding herself of bodily fluids.)
Basically, the only attention girls on stages in clubs get, is ruthless judgement. Because they’re putting themselves up for it. Climbing onto that platform is like saying: “Hey! I’m either confident enough or desperate and pathetic enough to be here! You decide!” And let me tell you, the people who are confident enough don’t feel the need to climb onto a sticky wooden bench to prove it.
So why do clubs put the platforms slash cages in there? I personally blame movies and music videos. Club owners envision stupidly sexy women with tanned, long legs, seductively grinding each other in shiny cages, wearing short sparkling dresses. Tossing their long hair in the conveniently installed fans. It’s more like stupidly drunk girls with cankles and leggings, thrusting their tongues in each others mouths while their mascara leaks all over their blood-shot faces. I suppose it’s done more in the hopes that all the babes will put themselves on display, drawing the attention of horny guys, thus resulting in horny guys buying babes many drinks, in turn resulting in more revenue? Probably. Nowhere is safe from Capitalisms giant claw! You are its bitch comrade!