After work, I went to ‘city hotspot’ (hotspot, people actually use that word in a non-ironic context) CQ last night with some mates from work. I was still wearing my suit too, and looked a proper cunt. I was so down on myself that it took every ounce of my character not to smash a glass in the bathroom and slit my wrists to end the pain. Also, I paid $20 for the privilege of entering my own version of Hell on Earth, while the door bitch looked me up and down to ascertain whether or not I was an out-of-shape rugby player or not. What a fucking shithole.  

There seemed to be a gaggle of blokes manning mops to clean up spills at the bar too, which was incredibly fucking annoying. Every time I moved to get out of the way of a marauding mopper, another one would materialise out of thin air and tap me on the shoulder, looking at me passive-aggressively as if I’d stood in his way on purpose. I felt like drowning them all in their natty little slop buckets. For a place that charges $20 entry, it’s not exactly the epitome of class now, is it?

I’m sure that somewhere in CQ’s chequered history, some 18 year old girl wearing 10-inch heels slipped and fell on a spilt Bacardi Breezer, snapping her spine and confining her to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. The girl, now 25, still goes to CQ (takes the lift) and parks her chair to the side of stage, dancing, feeling that she’s still a part of ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ is. She beams a huge smile and chats to her friends (the ones she has left), but if you look a little harder, you can see the true sadness in her eyes… As part of the court settlement, CQ probably had to agree that ne’er again shall a person have to take responsibility for their own actions when walking around pissed in a nightclub, hence the fucking mop militia.

Then there’s the music. My ears feel like they’ve been raped by what was one of the most relentless onslaughts of truly awful house music I’ve ever suffered through. There were two DJs up on the stage accompanied by one of the biggest white-bread eating, flat-brim donning, aggressively tattooed douchebag motherfucker MCs I’ve ever had the displeasure of having to look at, all outwardly appearing to have a great time while desecrating some old hip-hop staples that they’d decided would fit well when mashed nonchalantly into current Top 40 tracks (they didn’t).

I would have enjoyed throwing javelins at them until they were all impaled on the advertising banner behind them for some 2nd tier energy drink that appeared to be sponsoring this unholy cluster fuck.

So, I snuck away quietly without saying goodbye, met up with another couple of mates and had dinner at 2am. I ordered Szechuan Pork and it was fucking awful. I was too pissed to pick up anything with my chopsticks.  

Then I couldn’t get a cab, so I walked 4kms home.

What a shit night…

/end communication