Put your name on the Guest List… Please?!

Picture this: It is a dark night and you can feel the wind whipping your face, making you shudder. Eyes burn into your back and boisterous jeers resonate in your ears. You want to hit back at the cold fingers that occasionally swipe the back of your leg, but with one wrong footing, you are under.

No, you’re not on a pirate ship walking the plank- you’re a club promoter on a Friday night- just doing your job.

It is a known fact that pretty girls and ripped guys are a pull factor when it comes to us clubbers. And it is true; we are all guilty of being seduced into this glittery world of beautiful, enthusiastic people. We secretly relish the attention promoters lavish on us, whether in the form of warm smiles, or subtle sexual gestures- one promoter even going so far as to offer me his umbrella on a particularly wet night, but not before presenting it as a phallic symbol! (Nevertheless, thank you to my knight in beige chinos!)

We see confidence and the buzzing enthusiasm, and expect the same from the club we are entering. However, an esteemed scholar once imparted some great advice- “be wary of a club that has much in the window, but nothing in the room”. (Dalai Lama’s quotes can be used in multiple contexts, right?) In fact, you could say that the correlation between the beauty factor of the promoter and the enjoyment factor of the club is non-existent. We must not forget this.

Being a promoter made me realise that all is not what it seems. I began to question if the girl with the ‘come hither’ eyes was really interested in you beyond the fact that you were more meat in the room. I began to wonder whether Pedro the Adonis, was really thinking naughty thoughts as he caressed his oiled chest beneath his tactical wet t-shirt? Or was he in fact thinking about whether he would make his nine AM lecture? There is a certain seediness, a subtle element of vice, to club promotion that can only be seen in the cold light of day.

In my experience of club promotion, it was not all about the thrill of free entry, the nod of respect from the bouncer as he parts the rope for you. It was about hard work. The gruelling fill of guest lists, the distribution of flyers in miserable weather, and the herding of clubbers- somewhat like a scantily clad shepherd. But then perhaps I should have been slightly more wary of a profession in which submitting a photo was principal part of my application.

Don’t get me wrong, there are perks- free entry to the club, free locker storage, free ‘Sex on the beach’. But even whilst I was enjoying these privileges, I found myself thinking ‘Is it really worth it?’ Often the income is small and unreliable, with long evening hours- inconvenient unless you are nocturnal.

I found myself becoming increasingly frustrated with the times I had to smile through crude suggestions of the ‘punter’ when all I wanted was a nice sit down and a cup of tea. I was in a building that promoted the freedom to ‘have a good time’ yet I felt trapped, self-conscious and tired. These days, I’d rather do a paper round. And the next time I go clubbing, I’ll try my best not to be seduced by Pedro promising me the euphoria of 2-4-1 cocktails- whilst I stare at his bulging arms.