On Not Going to Venus

Despite having dished out such vitriolic lambasting on this blog towards local house music club Venus, I still found myself walking straight in there on Sunday night. It was before midnight and the club was still quiet, and when I ordered a soft drink the bartender picked up that I was driving and gave me the OJ for free.

Unfortunately my mates- arriving later- had been stopped at the door, so the free drinks were shortlived. I came outside to meet them.

M1 was STEAMING and quite dejected. “Mate,” he said, hugging me, “I've been out all afternoon.”

“You shouldn't have told them you were a doorman,” said F1, his girlfriend.

We walked off towards Revolution. “To be honest,” I purported, “It's more likely to be the amount of alcohol you've drank.”

I described the numerous problems I've had with Venus over the years such as this and this. “I never mentioned it before because I didn't want to be negative, but... fuck 'em.”

We got into Revolution, where I proceeded to crack onto women who the girls in our group told me I “could have got much better than.” (I didn't get anything from said women anyway.)

But before long, we were all in a house-party mood so we shot off to M1 and F1's house on the outskirts of Manchester, where I figured that if I was staying over there'd be no problem with me dropping my first MDMA bomb.This resulted in me dancing like a twat for hours and hours, but in fact being out-danced by a girl, who we will name F2, which was a first. She was on the same as me. I followed this up by eating a mountain of pizza and garlic bread, an inclusion that I had no recollection of anyone ordering, and eventually collapsing on the sofa with a Romanian barmaid.

But sleep evaded me, and at around 9am I convinced myself that the bomb had passed out of my system and I drove home to the enveloping warmth of my own bed.

So, once again, Venus was a let-down- under different circumstances this time. Hellufan after-party, though.