The wife persuaded me to go to a club last night, mainly to see a friend of hers strut his stuff in his own unique style. Generally, nightclubs and I don't mix. I find the drinks limited and pricey and more often than not such places are full of the people I have spent my life avoiding social contact with. Not that I'm a snob or anything- I'm just more of a sociopathic misanthrope with acute homicidal tendencies and a low tolerance for bellends. Plus, I'm reliably informed that my dancing resembles the death throes of a man covered in burning napalm and even bellends don't deserve to witness that.
The choice of venue was a place in the centre of town called Boogie Wonderland and the first thing that struck me when we went in was the small number of clientele (I've seen more crowded bars in Saudi Arabia) and the fact that the DJ booth was contained within a large cup being held by two equally large hands. I was trying to get my head around this bizarre image while the DJ was going through his inane chatter and all I could think of was that it was meant to represent some sort of post-modern vegetable soup. There was certainly a cabbage involved, anyway.
In the Mixmaster Mug, DJ Crouton was playing a selection of the 30 songs known in Auckland's drinking holes. I swear to St Angelina, that the same songs followed us round all night. We went to three bars before the club and we heard the same tracks again and again. It's like every pub and club in Auckland has the same copy of "Now That's What I Call Utter Shite" that they pump out on an endless loop as some sort of Gitmo-esque punishment for being members of Al-Quoholic. While we are on the subject of bars, a stag party turned up at the Irish bar we started at. Every stag do I have been on has followed that trend. Is it a universal law that all stag parties, no matter where in the world they happen, have to visit an Irish pub?
Back in Disco Hell, when I spotted the Saturday Night Fever style light tile floor I was immediately reminded of the scene in Airplane with the bar full of rough freaks dancing to the Bee Gees. Sure enough, 20 minutes after, the Brothers Gibb squealed into life on DJ Crouton's decks and the freak parade began in earnest. All that was missing from this scene were two girl scouts kicking the crap out of each other and a man gesturing to a knife protruding from his back. Although, given recent events in Auckland, the latter could easily have shown up.
Finally, I spotted the behatted simpleton pictured posing above. With my very own peepers I've seen some surreal messed up shit over the years including genocide in Rwanda, objects moving across the room by themselves and several male family members dressed as women, but my jaw was agape as Brokeback Maori took to the podium.
He was dancing (if you can call it that) quite camply while at the same time performing some imaginary karaoke, which mutated into him pointing at various things on the ceiling, paddling an invisible canoe (though he did get bonus points for unfurling an invisible map, studying it and peering through a likewise invisible spyglass), some robotics, swimming and a moonwalk (where he just took strides backwards) before settling on whirling an imaginary lasso around his head and then pretending to haul in something at ceiling height (possibly an invisible llama stag on his way to meet the rest of the party at O'Hagan's Irish Bar). While performing all of this, he was smiling at friends across the room and occasionally winking at them.
One of my companions then pointed out the flaw in this process in that he didn't actually have any friends there and he was smiling at incredulous strangers, thin air and the back of people's heads. He was also drinking coke and nothing else, so alcohol isn't to blame this time. In any case, booze would probably interfere too much with his anti-psychotic medication, which obviously needed upping.
By the end of the night, he was still giving it his best and as we left I saw him start the lasso process all over again. He's probably still dancing along to the songs in his head as he waits in line for his meds.
In conclusion, there are some things the eyes should never have to witness, so I'm going to petition the local council to have the place renamed Boogie Neverland. For just like the late Michael Jackson's paedo palace, this is a place to be avoided if you don't want to lose your innocence.
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