Oceana and all its troubles

Every Tom, Dick and Harry loves a good night out, that hard sixteen hour shift spent working in the library, working your fingers to the bones, reading so many profound words (you’re pretty sure you qualify for some sort of society) and browsing the internet for ideas you can rephrase in your best English, surely deserves a reward of some sort? So once the graveyard shift is over, comes the celebration intoxiated with alcohol and the ecstasy of going out, and where better to go than Oceana… of course?

But, frankly every time I end up in Oceana, the recurring thought going through my head is ‘why am I here?’ (I’ve been told I can’t swear in my articles so I’ll leave the profanities for another rant.)

Oceana, in all it’s glory, should in theory, be the perfect night out. “Banging music” (as one lad phrased it to me), the devil’s liquor and “lads and girls” (as another testosterone filled teenager managed to spit out) should make for the perfect combination. It doesn’t, it makes for a headache I can’t get rid off the next morning, a workout I wasn’t looking for, from the task of monotonously walking around looking for others and a state of depression that makes me want to reconsider life.

The lay out of Oceana, is so widespread, it almost becomes a game of hide and seek. I could spend a good part of the evening looking for my drunken roomate than actually dancing… if you want to call it that. The amount of people filtering in and out of the toilets makes me convinced that some individuals have started hibernating in the sickbucket of the institution. The toilets themselves are usually filled with an aroma of urine, sweat and regret, and to be honest I’m better off bursting my kidneys than looking for a spot in the urinal. The company, also deploy a matridee (or the guy that gives fist bumps and begs for my left over student- loan) in the toilet to try make me feel better about myself, take note Oceana – it doesn’t work.

The club tries to pass itself off as a palace of some sort. Whether it’d be the drapes overlooking the dancefloor or the chandeliers by the bar.. it just looks like they’ve made a quick trip to poundland. When finally getting to the front of the bar, after a battle to the death, they give you a drink on a napkin, I almost felt like royalty… until I remembered where I was. There’s also a slot machine milling about somewhere  which just exemplified the downward spiral I found myself in.

My favourite bit of Oceana though, has to be what everyone goes there for, the dancefloor… there are so many words I’d like to use for it but I can’t. The dancefloor is usually packed to the brim, filled with students and the odd ‘cougar’ looking to pull. The floors stickier than the boys backs I’m constantly forced to make contact with and the amount of disposed cups lurking around make the outing feel like the grand national.

After a while of being there, you start need your hearing aid. The music, which is worse than folk and that 3000 word essay you have to write the next day, is blaring out at decibles I didn’t even know exist. Trying to communicate with the individual next to you is like learning a new language for the British. We might as well tap out morse code.

Once I’ve come to terms with the fact that my life is worth living, despite my stint in the lowest glam place my student life has to offer, I decide I’m gonna make the most of the night and actually ‘have a good time’, I use that phrase loosely. But, despite my new found optimism I start to get looks from others that make me feel like an animal in a petting zoo. Oceana, is renowned for it promiscuous lifestyle and it seemes to live up to it as I was able to count on two hands the amount of cannibalism I detected, or ‘snogging’ as they like to call it. Maybe I really was in a zoo?

The opportunity to go there, often arises and the usual ultimatum pops up, sit and home and be miserable or go to Oceana, for the sake of it and be discontent with life. The only fun part I got out of my recent trip was counting how many people could bargain a lift home from all the enthusiastic taxi drivers.

Maybe I’m being cynical, in fact yes, yes I am, but I’m sorry Oceana.. you’re just not for me!

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