Worse than Dante's inferno

I have never truly and fully appreciated the allure of the nightclub. Granted; when I was in my late teens and early 20s, I patronised nightclubs with incredible regularity. But that doesn't really count.

The hormones of a 19-year-old male have one major instruction; find a female with the requisite levels of gullibility and low standards to harbour the desire to mate with you. As a result, I used to frequent popular clubs in Durban such as Whispers on Umgeni Road and Genesis on (then) Smith Street. But that was about 20 years ago. Between then and now I have been ambushed by sneaky acquaintances and friends and found myself inside a nightclub maybe half a dozen times.

The reason I'm going down this particular memory lane is because someone I know and respect recently suggested that we go to a club one Saturday evening. I must confess that I was taken aback. I remember that my knee-jerk reaction was to wonder if they no longer have age restrictions at clubs.

After all, my friend is 36. During my clubbing days there was the official lower limit of 18 and an unofficial upper limit of about 30. And even 30 was pushing it. A man of 29 doing the "Running Man" to the beat of Vanilla Ice was frowned upon the same way people would react to R Kelly in a convent school playground.

Besides, this friend is a well-read, incredibly smart individual who I would never have associated with frequenting what I consider to be nothing more than a warehouse full of people in various stages of losing their hearing.

So I respectfully declined his invitation by mumbling a rotten lie about a swollen ankle.

This incident forced me to spend a few minutes pondering the real reasons behind my aversion to clubs. The obvious reason, I realised, is that I'm 39 and I cannot think of anything more humiliating than bouncing up and down a dance floor, my belly and C-cups jiggling all over the place. It's the kind of thing that should be discouraged by all patriots with an ounce of decency.

And truth be told: I cannot dance to save my life. I've been told that when I try to dance, I look like someone with a rare central nervous condition, what with all the erratic twitching that happens. But my failures on the dance floor are not the primary reason I avoid clubs, the same way I imagine Helen Zille avoids an ANC Youth League rally.

The primary reason is that, with my disproportionate sense of self-worth, I find the idea of paying someone money for the "privilege" of going inside their glorified parking lot to spend more money objectionable.

It is the principle of the matter. It's the same reason I'm not a member of any clubs, societies or political parties. I can think of much better uses for my R12 than handing it over to Gwede Mantashe.

And then there's the whole issue of what it is that you're paying for. Well, first you get to queue behind a velvet rope, like a hobo outside a soup kitchen. Then they size you up, looking for compliance to some moronic dress code. I'm sorry, but no one gets to tell me what I can or cannot wear. This is why I don't go to theme parties and I'm not a member of the ZCC church. Although I must say that at least they don't charge entrance fees in church. They wait until you're inside before they fleece you.

But before you can go into the club to be swindled out of R35 for one beer, you have to go through those beefcakes at the door - so full of steroids they have chiselled muscles on their faces.

Having my gonads fondled by a Gurthrö Steenkamp lookalike is not my idea of starting a good evening. Of course, as soon as you walk in you are greeted by alleged music hitting your eardrum at a thousand decibels - monotonous, repetitive rubbish designed to hypnotise you into a trance.

Now you're walking around like a zombie. You don't even care that paying a R200 entrance fee so you can pay R60 for a shot of vodka is essentially a street mugging with a soundtrack. Forget any semblance of a coherent conversation with anyone. Just tap your feet to the beat and shake what your mama gave you. Strange, unattractive people rub up against you, touching you with clammy hands. A sea of sweaty humanity.

The last time I went to a club was some years ago. For days afterwards I walked around in a daze. My ribcage felt as though it had taken a pounding from one of the Klitschko brothers. It took me three vigorous showers to remove the stench of tobacco from my body.

And that's when I looked at myself and made a covenant with myself. Never again. At my age, a gentle evening with a 30Seconds board is just what the doctor ordered.