Going Out – Why I’d rather stay in and watch QI

SO, I went out last night and basically spent most of the evening wishing I hadn’t.

I tried to look like I was having fun, but it was no use. I just wished I was at home.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like a drink or eight and an evening of nonsensical banter down at the local pub with mates. Oh contraire, that happens to be a personal hobby of mine.

And I’m not blaming the girls I went out with last night – they were trying their best to enjoy themselves too.

No. I can hang out in a bar until the wee hours with the best of them. If the mood strikes me, I might even get up and dance or join in, nay even occassionally start, the Sing Song.

What I’m complaining about here is Going Out – the kind of evening that involves hair straighteners and high heels and clutch bags and desperately trying to look socially acceptable despite the fact that regardless of my best efforts I will still be older and fatter and less fashionable than all the skinny, young, fake-tanned, false-eyelashed, micro-skirted and stilleto wearing college students.

(Who knows where they get the money to spend on themselves, their car, their iPhones and all the drink they consume – hmmm, prostitution anyone? Jokes, of course!)

The kind of evening that involves ridiculously loud cover bands telling the audience to “make some noise” even though those wankers are already making more noise than would be necessary if they were playing Wembley Arena, which they never will because they are shit.

The kind of evening that involves excruciatingly long queues at the bar and Dolly Birds who think it's cute to push in, and young studs who take up all the space at the bar drinking several rounds of shots and slamming them down while they’re waiting for their actual round of Vodka Redbulls and pints of lager (what is this, guys, the Wild West? Are you about to embark on a tour-of-duty tomorrow? Is one of you is off to board a ship to Americay, ne’er to return? No? Then go easy for fuck’s sake.)

And when it’s finally my turn at the bar I have to scream for my order to be heard and do it in a stupid kind of Irish accent so that I can be understood by the bar staff who largely rely on lip reading. (God bless ‘em, they deserve a medal.)

The kind of evening that involves invading people's personal space to shout in their ear before eventually giving up on chat and trying to look happy just chillin' and watchin' the band (which, as mentioned above, are SHIT).

The kind of evening that involves wondering if there is somewhere better to be, then spending half the night going from one bar to the next, only to find the bars just get shittier and more annoying each place we go, before finally ending up in a nightclub we have to pay to get in to only to have one drink before we realise that one of us is waaaay too drunk and needs to leave NOW.

The kind of evening that involves late-night freaking yummy, next-morning feel guilty and can’t do a poo stodgy and dodgy food, and a shared taxi home.

The kind of evening that costs way too much, involves being surrounded by way too many horny young egotistical people and ends in stuffing my face with crap food and passing out in bed for twelve hours.

The kind of evening I used to love.

But with each passing year I'm coming to terms with the fact that it just ain’t no fun no more.

When I finally got home last night I kicked off my heels, threw on my pyjamas and settled down to watch a recording of the latest episode of QI. The best music I heard all night was the show’s theme tune. Sad.

But I could feel my tensions easing, my mind relaxing as it focussed on the witty repartee and interesting but ultimately useless facts presented by Stephen Fry. And as I sipped my hot cup of tea I laughed at Bill Bailey’s surreal ramblings and Alan Davies’s charming silliness.

Ahhh, bliss.

So will I Go Out again? Probably, inevitably, yes.  But I’d give it at least another six months. And I’ll need to make sure I have some comfort viewing to come home to.

I’ll consult the TV Guide.

P.S. Yes, I am a married woman and the reason my husband doesn’t feature in this rant is because he’s gone on a bender in Munich for the weekend to celebrate Oktoberfest. And yes, he’s totally cool with me going out to nightclubs with single friends. Maybe I wish he wasn’t cool with it. If he ‘forbade’ me at least I would have a good excuse not to Go Out. But then if he ‘forbade’ me to do anything I would kick his arse.