The doorman who rejected the former Beatle entry to a Grammys after-party did us all a favor. No one need take these refuges for D-listers severely again
How VIP do we gotta get ?! Upon being refused entry to the rapper Tygas Grammy aftershow party, an indignant Paul McCartney peers at the faces of his companions, baffled. The doorman, with a doormans unique and innate infallibility, wont budge. Paul wrote Eleanor Rigby. He wrote Yesterday while actually being asleep, for goodness sake.
Never mind that Macca had turned up at the incorrect party he was supposed to be three miles down the road at Mark Ronsons, presumably equally swanky, after-party. And it is certainly too little too late for Tyga to pass the blamed on to overzealous doormen, claiming he would have been more than happy to have invited the Beatle in. This was the worlds greatest living songwriter, with a net worth of PS820m, but on Monday night none of it mattered. Paul was just a 73 -year-old man who, for the first time in at the least 54 of those years, was seeing that his best chance of getting in might be to nip behind the bins and change coats with one of his mates.
Surely this is it the final straw for the club as a desired final destination on any night out. The rest of us have been putting up with Your names not on the listing or No trainers, mate for decades, but Macca? No. Not him. Clubs have gone too far this time. Yes, his situation was different from ours: his mates were Beck and Foo Fighters Taylor Hawkins as opposed to two idiots who sank a bottle of pinot each because Wethers is so cheap youre sort of losing money if you dont, and the party he attempted to get into was Tygas , not Tiger Tiger. Nevertheless, if even “the mens” who redefined boulder with Helter Skelter isnt good enough to get in to a club, the time has surely come to conclude that clubs are not good enough for us to actually want to get into to.
Im not talking about dance connoisseurs nightclubs here ones where club is used as a verb. Theyre different. Theyre fine full of happy, dancing people there to enjoy music. No, I mean the inexplicably snooty, cocktail-y ones. They play Jason Derulo a lot. Or Drake. Blasted so loud it renders dialogue impossible without yodelling into your victims ear the point, incidentally, at which they discover a damp waft of saliva down the ear canal does little to reduce the agony of a perforated eardrum. Sometimes you can get a pint in these places, but opportunities are youll pay full-pint price for a bottle, which last day I checked is just over half a pint. Utter, meritless nonsense.
Pub licensing laws have changed and clubs no longer have a monopoly on wee-hours boozing. So what exactly is the point of them? Why are people still queueing up for 40 minutes to get into one, shall be required to urinate so fiercely that all the capillaries in their eyes have exploded?
People go to clubs on the pull, for one thing. This is fair enough, understandable: clubs remove any possibility of dialogue and promote boozily confident dancing handy for people, lets tell, whose best feature is their seems. Clubs also often have an tempt, velvet-roped-off VIP area, inviting you to wonder what exclusive pleasures might lurk therein. Lets set this one to bed right now Ill tell you what lurks therein: my mate sneaked into one in Ibiza once and all she did was snog Dean Gaffney and nick Michael Grecos hat. The best you can hope for here is a fleeting appearance by Dane Bowers or Arg from Towie. You dont imagine you could have a prolonged debate about the best book in the His Dark Materials trilogy with either of them. In fact, you get the distinct impression that, whatever you said, eventually one of them would end up crying.
Clubs are rubbish. They were rubbish when we were all 18, and theyre rubbish now. Theyre a relic of a day when people wanted a fleeting savour of D-list celebrity for the price of a thrown-together mojito. Now were older and wiser, and paying PS8 to get into a place where the staff treat you like a minor irritant seems wildly unnecessary. Its day the club, as a notion, died, and we all received a half-decent late-opening pub instead. The over-zealous doorman at Tygas after-party undoubtedly saved Paul McCartney from an nasty, nasty night.
My local saloon bides open until dribble oclock. It has no DJ, but a vinyl deck with a panoply of records for utilize by anyone, many of which have Paul McCartney on them. Theres dancing. Darts. Chatter. A smoking gazebo. It has two fat , non-judgmental puppies in it, and a cat that sleeps in the nut tray. And, most importantly, because its not 1996, it has no doorman with a face like the back of a fist telling you your moneys not good enough because your shoes are wrong and he doesnt like your hairdo.
If youre in the area, Macca, stroll past the clubs and come down for a pint. Join us in 2016. Mines a pale ale.
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