Digital Diatribe

stop looking at me like I raped your dog.

Upon returning to work this week I held the obligatory “What did you do for New Years?” conversation with my co workers and discovered one of them had paid $80 for the privilege of going to a club on King St Wharf.
This naturally led me to think of what I would expect to get for my $80. When I asked if he got a bottle of champagne with his lap dance he informed me that it wasn’t that kind of a club.

But then I started thinking about cover charges to clubs in general. It seems to be a more common occurrence in Sydney now to be charged for the opportunity to be overcharged for drinks while having horrendously loud music forced into your aural cavities whist trying to make conversation with people who’s sole purpose in these establishments seems to be to make you hate them for looking for horribly pretentious. If you manage to get past all that and actually purchase drinks anyway (and really, when you paid $20 or so to get in why wouldn’t you be drinking?) then there will come a point in the not too distant future where you will need to expel them.

And this is where the cover charge really starts to take the piss.

For $20 per person, you think they could at least afford to clean the toilets. Do they honestly expect you to hold it in? Perhaps this is why the drink prices are so high, they only expect you to drink one and then never have to use the loo.

Any kind of establishment that has the balls to charge $20 entry should also have the balls to use their own bathrooms on a Friday night. Assuming you can get through the door, the next thing you are greeted with, other than the site of someone vomiting into a urinal, is the overpowering stench of ammonia.
Heaven forbid if you needed to take a crap, because all the stalls now have urine over every inch of toilet seat, and if you do manage to find one that has been up all evening and set it down, the moment you drop trou the heels of your pants handily absorb all the piss on the floor so that the cleaners don’t have to.

Not being a woman, I have no idea if the ladies rooms are any better, but in my mind they are pristine piss paradises compared to the horrible mess that awaits blokes after that third beer.

But most of us need never worry about this situation thanks to Sydney’s abundance of dickhead security gaurds (which is probably another post in itself) who take it upon themselves to be the city’s fashion police. Fortunately if you are a relatively intelligent bloke then you more often than not won’t be let in, and thus not have to put up with all the bullshit.

Or urine, as the case might be.