Why I’d rather drown than go to Ocean
More like Nocean
So it’s Friday and you’ve survived another week of Crisis and barely going to your pricey lectures. All your hard work, or lack thereof, has earned you some well-deserved rest and relaxation.
Anyone fancy a dip in the ocean? Not me.
While Ocean has established itself as the prime destination on a Friday night, with tickets more highly valued than a degree from Trent, I’ve never understood the appeal.
I have the highest respect for the man and Legend Andy Hoe, the club’s owner, I would rather spend my night literally anywhere else.
Ok I get it, the music is cheesy, it’s all a laugh and being able to recite all the lyrics to every song has its appeal. But the last time I heard Ocean’s ‘floor fillers’ was at my primary school disco.
Surely if I offered you the opportunity to listen to four hours solid of Busted, McFly and Bob The Builder among other cringeworthy blasts from the past non-stop for three years straight you would say no.
Nottingham has a lot to offer when it comes to music, catering to all tastes and preferences, so why listen to such utter shite week in week out? You don’t have to be an edgy, deep-house-loving raver who only goes to the most obscure nights, but surely I’m not alone in disliking a club that sounds like a five year old’s birthday playlist on shuffle.
The Ocean carpet is as famous as the club that houses it. So much so that when it was replaced a Facebook page emerged that gained a following of over 3,000 likes in just 14 hours.
The carpet takes a serious battering week in week out from the spilt Jagerbombs and WKDs as well as the imevitable spillage from fingerer’s corner. No one can do that and hold onto their drink.
As a result this innocent floor covering is transformed into a sticky, smelly, pube-infested collection of threads that claims the souls of countless trainers during term time. I fail to understand how people love something so gross, it’s like girls fancying the elephant man. The Ocean carpet is the furniture equivalent of Coventry.
Trying to impress your soul mate that you just found swaying on the dancefloor by splashing your cash? Or buying a round of drinks for your mates?
The bars are busy because everyone goes. But after waiting for what feels like you realise you’ve run out of cash paying for that last shot of sambuca and now you’re stuck because Ocean does not accept cards.
One of the benefits of having a student overdraft and loan is that when paying for stuff by card it never really feels that bad. It’s when you see a twenty pound note turned into a handful of coins that reality sets in and you realise that the money is real and it is running out.
Like the music, I can see where people are coming from. I’m smashed, you’re smashed, so let’s dance.
However much like the music, every time I’ve attended the big O I experience the feeling of repetitive boredom. While the same can be said about clubbing in general, at least other nightclubs offer different nights varying in music and themes and even throw in a famous DJ now and again.
Granted twirling your t-shirt above your head to the Baywatch theme tune in unison with everyone else was fun that first time in fresher’s week – but seeing the dancefloor filled with sweaty bare-chested smelly revelers loses its appeal pretty quickly.
When I finally get to the level of inebriation that makes Ocean half acceptable, I just look like a junkie emerging from his cave for the first time in months, and get denied entry. While this is not Ocean’s fault at all, it just shows that to truly enjoy it you have to be so drunk that you usually can’t even remember what happened inside anyway.
While all these reasons to hate Ocean can be put down to me being a complete miserable bastard, I don’t think I’m the only one who is disenchanted with the whole concept.
It’s the nightclub equivalent of the Wealdstone Raider – over hyped and really boring after the first time yet inexplicably loved by thousands.