Nightclubs, a place people go to spend their hard-earned-money getting all types drunk, throwing shapes/punches to overly loud music, a place 18-year-old lads go to meet with a girl they’ve been speaking to on Facebook for a few weeks, he buys her a drink and she lets him slip her a cheeky finger and they both go home (semi) happy.  A place 40 year olds go, and get conned out of £30 by young girls pretending to be interested for a fully funded night and maybe a taxi home. A place… you get the picture, it’s awful.   Six profiles that make it so.

The Woo Girls

How I Met Your Mother explained this type of person very well, but I think I can go one better, without being a total b**tard…or more of a b**tard, I’m shooting for either.

“Oh Em Gee! we had such a good night, Em got with 4 guys and we took pictures LOL!”

“What a messy night, pics coming soon, luv ma girlz woo xox!”

Ah the joy of 50cl of Sainsbury’s own vodka between 5 of them, one of which has just turned 18 and the rest being somewhere in the region of 15-17 with ID begged off a friend of a friend’s, mother’s brother’s cat or something to that effect.

Inside the club the mob of under aged girls proceed to take pictures of themselves in a group shot, captioned “ma girlz”, in a comic pose with a bouncer or a toilet assistant with some lame, unfunny quote “Just chillin with the BFF LOL!”

“Let’s do a shot!”  no don’t.

Then eventually someone throws up and realises that regurgitated Sambuca and stomach acid is a glowing puddle of sorrow and realisation as they quietly consider becoming a social recluse round the back of a bin while asking themselves the question many of us have asked our drunk self in times of  near chunder, “What am I doing with my life?”

Side note: these girls often look older than they are…approach with caution. Unless you’re already on a register then fill your boots, or your van.

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The Heavy

“I pick heavy stuff up and put it back down!”  The following only works with a David Attenborough voice over.

The large male, dons his overly tight v-neck T shirt in the spare bedroom of his mom’s house, despite being 29 he still works as a waiter.  He calls up his pack and signals that Dave, Gezo, Nasher and Kev should meet at the local club and begin the hunt. They stay near the smoking area when inside, not dancing because their herculean physic is more than enough to win the affections of the surrounding females. (Which is sadly true for us slight folk)

“I am going to stand in this same spot and drink Carling until something clicks in my think tank.. LOOK HOW MASSIVE MY ARMS ARE”.

The Wannabe

Now these fellows, are one of my least favourite groups of people, mainly because in a group of 12 they are pretty menacing but behold the internet, *unsheathes keyboard*

Drake is a multimillionaire, a rapper a proprietor of various estates in a knob load of places, he’s a fan of bitches and OVO as he makes abundantly clear.  He also has followers who pretend to live the lifestyle of him by hanging out at the bar of a club and ordering three rounds of drinks at the same time for them and their ‘soldiers’, all Brandy and Coke’s (they ain’t no pussy’oles) with a £50 note, well I’m sure that’s what Drizzy himself does, no?

No, your parents the accountant and the salesman wouldn’t be happy with you would they, all that sugar is bad for your teeth you silly scamp.

The next 3 hours of the night are spent staring at women, thinking “so the bitches just come to us? lets all keep staring…maybe pout? Yeah awesome, I’ll use Blue Steel for this one” don’t be a nark.

The Chin Strap

“My week of plumbing is over, lets start a fight because my life is so horrendous and mundane! Yeah that’ll get a girl to touch my dick”

This is honestly the thought process for these people, often found wearing an age-old chequered shirt dosed in Paco Rabanne; 1million (an all to common aftershave) a painfully terrible tattoo on the forearm with some awful meaning behind it and finally a chin strap…the signature of a ‘hard man’. Nothing quite screams ‘bad mother f**ker’ like a half beard, a thin line of awfulness which is all too similar to the type of hair found on b***ocks. Food for thought.

The Barbie

£2.99 for a bottle of Rosé, passing resemblance to a member of The Wanted or something s**t, and then boom you have all that’s needed to pull a Barbie…considering you have the morality to over look the foundation dusted wine glass and the vacant expression and the aura of helplessness and retardation.

Advice, when a woman at the end of the night puts her heels back on (yes, she took them off in the club  on the wrong feet and tries to walk and then promptly falls down, you should ring her a taxi, bundle her in and go home yourself. Do not take her back to your flat and spend the whole night watching nervously scared that she might choke on her own sick, as she lies unconscious on your bathroom floor. Yes, don’t do that.

The Chino Wanker

Chinos, buttoned up denim shirt, vans or toms and a hair cut identical to their mates, usually posing in a picture with a big ass camera being all retro and quirky. It’s a poor effort on my part to use Facebook as evidence but hey, f**k you.

So yeah, back on point. They hang around in shopping centres by day and jump around on the dance floor by night…and do a paper round mid afternoon. By my powers of stalking, I can tell they pull funny faces in photos that the weird guy with the camera takes when he walks around asking everyone to ‘act natural’ #totes #original. The preferred dance style of the bellend is a mixture of the ‘violent pelvic thrust’ and the ‘sexual inexperience dance of awkwardness’ not forgetting the  classic ‘act like you stepped on a plug’. I actually witnessed the latter not long ago, awf.

If #retro has taught us anything it’s that pretending to f**k something to lure a woman is a tried and tested move, passed down from apes…so right on, throwing faecal matter around could and should probably work as well.

Yeah so if any of the above describes you, congratulations on being a d**khead and feel free to remove, unfollow or come at me with a bottle because I’ve pin pointed your terrible existence in a paragraph I wrote at 5am.