Oceana Club

Living in a place where rugby rules can be a curse atimes. What I hate most is outsiders taking over over the local pub, though briefly.

You know the feeling when you are simply bored and wish to while away hours at the local pub or cafe and see familliar faces just so you can feel part of a community. Whenever there is a game at this stadium of consipicous monstrosity, it takes about half hour to get a drink!

In my quest for quick relief, not the kind you dirty people are thinking of, I decided to venture out beyond my backyard. I went to a club out of area. I'm no clubbing person, I'm too old. This review on London Oceana Club in Kingston Upon Thames does not spare feeling:

"Once upon a time bored Home Counties teenagers got tired of hanging around the local parade of shops, asking passers-by to buy them Diamond White from the offy and smoking poppy seed spliffs. 'But what else is there?' they cried, desperate for some kind of after-hours entertainment. Which is where Options came in.
Options, in Kingston, was the scene of many a teenage puke and snog for a surprisingly disproportionate amount of Londoners. Renowned for letting anyone in � big groups of lads, chavvy teenage girls, crusties selling acid, even grammar school kids � it soon attracted the attention of the local cop-shop, who wisely left well alone, not wanting the hassle.
But recently, Options was reborn as the 2,500 capacity Oceana, a �6million project boasting two dance floors, five bars, poor security and a serious problem with violence. Kingston's worthies have even formed an opposition group, campaigning to get its license revoked by citing the regular trouble that spills out in the small hours when cheap beer combined with bad music and no discernable public transport system leads to ugly scenes in Kingston town centre.
Worse, one woman was recently raped at gunpoint after accepting a lift following a night at the club.
And I use the word 'club' advisedly, because Oceana is about as far from what most of us would consider a nightclub as possible. In truth, it's a huge student pub with terrible music, overdressed suburbanites and dance floors like cattle markets.
There are many who look for nothing more from their evening out than a Bacardi Breezer flavoured snog and a bottle in the face, and good luck to 'em. But if clubbing has really gone full circle � from cheesy local discos to an exciting and creative counterculture and now back to the mainstream age"

Imagine this, you need a driver's licence or passport to get in. This is human rights violation! I can't be bothered to to argue this sort of people. I give up clubbing, again.