I hate going out. I really, truly, hate going out. On any given weekend Copenhagen bars and nightclubs are about as much fun as full-blown herpes. It’s impossible to get around, impossible to get a drink much less have a thought to yourself amidst the dance music driven, sweat-spewing nightmare that is Friday night out on the town. But still from time to time I do go out. Why? Because as much as I hate the nightlife, I truly do love drinking. In fact, I am a formidable juicer if I have to say so myself. I’m not picky, I love all of it. If it’s semi-liquid, loaded with alcohol and blows your throat out the back of your neck, odds are I’ll like it. And drinking at home just isn’t the same as the experience you get at a bar – a real bar I might ad. The old school kind that brings a nostalgic tear to your eye. Where the smell of piss and stale beer creates an atmosphere of pure comfort and encourages complete serenity. It gives you a chance to reflect. A chance to slow down and smell the roses. And more importantly it gives you a chance to pass out as you vomit your guts out in a toilet stall that has witnessed more deprivation than a fuck-doll in a catholic monastery.
Really, the only problem is finding the ideal watering-hole – a quest that requires constant vigilance, as you drag yourself from one shit-hole to another.
Now and then you do get lucky and find a perfect, unspoiled little gem amongst the trash. But you can rest assured that if you know about it, it won’t be long till everyone else does too and BANG; a swarm of locusts descends and you’re out on the street searching once again.
However you’re also bound to strike out sometimes. You will wind up in places from time to time that’ll make you wish you were never born, because your friends might not have the same excellent standards and taste in hangouts that you have (they also might be completely and utterly retarded).
Some time ago I found myself in that exact position:
Copenhagen-nightlife: I think the one on the left is having a stroke.
We’re standing outside on a cool evening in the fall. The air is crisp with early frost and my friend and I are waiting in line to get into a place in the city called LA Bar (which quite possibly is the lamest name for a bar on the planet).
From the outside you get a perfect view of the place through a giant panoramic window. The dance floor is packed with horny business majors and middle-aged management directors desperately looking for a bit of extra-marital attention. About a dozen of thirty-something women have found their way to this place all looking for a bit of love – a notion, during the course of the evening they will have to discard as prospects of giving head to some sweaty guy in an alley outside looks more and more like where things are going.
Now, the actual bar is a world of its own. Still viewable at safe distance from the window the giant bathtub-like bar in chromed steel takes up most of the space in the room next to the dance floor, resulting in people fighting for both beer and survival at the same time. The waitresses are perky, teeth-whitened, leather-tanned girls in their twenties sporting huge racks and zero brain-activity. They’re appealing in the same way the idea of sniffing glue is. It’s a ton of fun, but eventually you will wind up a retard.
At the entrance some guy who’s strung out on cheap coke and equally cheap cologne, is the sovereign ruler of a state whose policies border on outright fascism. A state known only as ‘The Wardrobe’.
The guy throws me one single look and yells as to penetrate the thick layer of crappy Euro dance that dominates the atmosphere:
- “You have to leave your coat here. It’s a 100 kr. You can pick it up out back between 4 – 5 am. No refunds for lost items. In or out?”
Contrary to popular belief, I am not a complete idiot. Being patronized by a jack-ass with a snowy moustache isn’t my idea of a good time. So for a second I consider my options: I can act like nothing, and hand over my battered up old jacket that the guy is looking at like it’s the spawning place of the Ebola virus. I can pound his nose through the back of his head, or just quietly leave. I don’t know whether it was because of the looks I got from the rest of the crowd waiting to get in, or the fact that I’d probably just end up hurting my knuckles more than his face, but I decided to split. And like a slain fool with my tail between my legs, I whisked away into the night.
From time to time I ponder if the only solution would be for me to open up my own bar. As I write this a cold shiver of arctic proportion runs up my girlfriend’s spine. But, now here’s a thought, right? I think, if I had my own bar I’d place it in my living room. It’d save me the trouble of walking far, my bed would always be near by and I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable wearing only boxers to the bar (seeing as it is in my own living room). I would serve everything in this bar of mine, and go through a rigorous screening process to find the right bartender. The result is a guy who’s even uglier than me, so female guests will think I’m the Tom Cruise look-alike in our little low budget, dip-shit remake of ‘Cocktail’. He’ll have to be strong enough to carry me home after a bender (shouldn’t be too hard though, as my bed is only about ten feet away). And finally he’ll have the common decency NOT to call the authorities whenever I issue idle, drunken death-threats.
Another humongous plus about having your very own bar, is that you get to decide the music. Now, I’m a really big fan of classic rock, but with popular music you run the risk of having some mongoloid sing along to songs he doesn’t even know the words to. This is, however, not a problem to him at all and the rest of us will suffer all night long. I think I’d go with elevator music, or the kind of easy listening crap that always makes a trip to the supermarket a super joyous occasion. It’s ideal when you think about it. I mean, you avoid having to bash some douche’s head in for moaning along, because there are no lyrics, and elevator-music is already designed to annoy people in cramped spaces (my living room isn’t really that big).
I actually, really think I’m on to something here. I mean, there must be tons of people out there who share my views, and long for the idyllic utopia of a bar that I’m prepared to convert my living room into. Perhaps ten to twenty guests per night the first couple a weeks, and then it’s really going to take off. Who knows, I may be sitting on a regular goldmine serving up people that would otherwise go home suicidal after a night on the town. In fact I’m not just opening up a bar: I’m doing the community a great favour!
So when it finally dawns on the coke-snorting emperor of the wardrobe from LA Bar that my place is the hippest joint on the planet, and he shows up among thousands of other hopeful scenesters, I will make sure to check him in personally:
- “You have to leave your coat here. It’s gonna cost you three grand, and you wont be able to check it out anytime soon, because I’m heading straight to the bathroom where I will light your cheap-ass, imitated skin, ugly as sin damn-jacket on fire! No refunds. IN OR OUT?!”
How’s that for an offer?
Yours truly, soon to be licensed barfly,
TD.
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This nonsense was written under the influence of vodka & cranberry juice and the soothing sounds of sticky fingers on the stereo.
