I took my 54-year-old dad clubbing in Cardiff

You’re never too old for the sesh

The time had come for the dreaded parent visit at university. I received endless messages for weeks from my Dad about all the ‘must see attractions’ in Cardiff he’d googled. He suggested the stereotypical three; Bute Park, Cardiff Bay and the Castle, none of which quite took my fancy. We eventually agreed on a comedy show at the Glee Club in Pryzm.

It took 10 minutes of the first comedian to realise a comedy show was maybe not the best choice of activity with a parent. Two hours of sex references later, I was relieved the show was over and decided the only option now was to show my dad what Cardiff’s nightlife had to offer.

Picture with a pitcher

First stop = Pryzm

We downed four pints and two pitchers of Woo Woo between us, and went to find the disco room. Shamelessly stopping in the corridor, my dad insisted on taking a selfie in the club to update his 554 Facebook friends of how the ‘dad and daughter weekend in Cardiff’ was going.

If you didn’t think the night was tragic enough so far, just take a look at my dad’s trousers

Next, O’Neill’s

Once we’d got to the main room I realised Pryzm was far too risky and managed to persuade my dad to follow me outside to go to O’Neill’s Irish bar. It was 9:30pm on a Saturday and I was already drunk with my dad.

Before we got to O’Neill’s I convinced him we needed food and so took him to the most expensive steak bar in Cardiff – after all, what other perk of your parents visiting is there, besides rinsing them of all they’re worth?

We ordered some BBQ ribs and two more cocktails each, and then decided the three half-drunk wine glasses on the empty table next to us looked far too tempting not to drink. Stumbling down Mary Street, we arrived at O’Neill’s and headed straight for the bar.

Six shots of Sambuca later, we drunkenly danced away to the cheesy Irish music only for the night to get even weirder. A woman around the age of thirty approached me in the middle of the dance floor, pulled me aside and said ‘come away love, you can do much better than him’. Hysterically laughing, whilst also rather mortified, I decided it was time for the next club.

Third? Missoula

We made it ten paces next door to Missoula, ordered three more vodka shots at the bar and went straight for the dance floor. My memory of this hour fades slightly, but not enough to forget the tragic dance off we had with some overweight Irish rugby fans.

You’d think the small benefit of clubbing with your dad would be he’d intervene when the usual 40-year-old creeps try to hit on you. But my dad was far too busy asking the bar-men in Missoula to rate his trousers out of ten to notice.

I took my dad upstairs where the music had more of a younger vibe. I decided to introduce him to the world of grime and proceeded to request as much Stormzy and Wiley as I could think of. Turns out he’s not a fan, and so he insisted we move on to the next club.


Last, but certainly not least, McDonald’s

Of course we considered Live Lounge, but at this point we were both far too drunk and I couldn’t face the tragic possibility of being rejected from a club with my dad. Instead we headed to McDonald’s for the usual end-of-night feast. A poor decision from me, as it only took a few days for several friends to ask: “who was the fifty year-old you were dancing with in the McDonald’s queue?”, to which I was never quite sure how to respond.

It was 5am and time for me to part with my dad as he staggered back to his airbnb. I walked home that morning bare foot, heels in one hand, cheese burger in the other, £60 poorer, and suddenly starting to question all my life choices.

Cheers Dad.