A Red Head’s Observation of Nightclubs (Author’s Note 3rd edn)

by Callum B. Downes


Lately, testament to my dedication to study, the majority of my precious time has been wastefully spent perfecting my Aristotle pose whilst pondering some of life’s biggest questions, rather than committing such useful brain power to my Himalayan mountain range of university work. Worse still, my brain assumes that the most advantageous time to commit to such philosophising is whilst I’m laying in bed trying to fall asleep.

One such sleep-defying question was why was I born with red hair? Why did God curse me with such a depraved deformity? Why didn’t my parents euthanize me at birth?

Okay, so maybe I’m just kidding, however the fact remains that the colour of my hair and the lack of pigment in my skin qualifies me as socially handicapped. Take my track record with girls on a night out as a prime example here. If I approach a girl in a well-lit area, where the redness of my hair and pastiness of my skin are accentuated, the chances of scoring her digits are almost zero. At best, I might receive comments like, “You look a little like Ron Weasley”, or “You’re like a better looking version of Prince Harry”. Sheldon Cooper would have a better chance in this situation. On the other hand, if I approach a girl in a dark area where my deformities are concealed, such as a dodgy back alley or a nightclub dance floor at one of Wollongong’s finest establishments, than my chances of attaining a girls number increase tenfold.

Which brings me to the next big question. Why do Wollongong nightclubs suck? After four disappointing years of experiencing Wollongong’s nightlife first hand, I have hypothesised three possible answers to such a pressing concern.

1. Sweaty Douchebags

Identifiable by their undersized clothing, steroid abuse and fist pumping, these creatures usually roam in distinctive packs who do not socialise with each other, choosing instead to scan the nightclub for potential mates to grind upon as some form of pre-mating ritual. Displays of dominance such as sculling full beers and bar brawls are common traits.

2. The Ratio

To quote the great Steve Stifler, “It’s a sausage fest”, as I’m often reminded on the overcrowded dance floor, as I struggle to move and hope that was a mobile phone sticking into my side and not somebody who was happy to see me.

3. The Inhumane Environment

Population density exceeds an Indian slum, the floors are covered in industrial grade adhesive, the toilet floors are covered in a concoction of bodily fluids, the general aroma resembles a 3rd world back alley, there is no where to escape the noise produced by the seemingly endless supply of amateur wanna be DJs and having fun is heavily policed by overpaid steroid abusers, with cliché tattoos and overinflated egos.

Personally, I would rather not contract HIV, and so only attend Wollongong’s nightclubs if I feel obligated by friends, in which case I cover my entire body in a giant condom.