What’s the most tragic hometown club in the country?

There’s a fair few Liquids and Oceanas in here


Everyone has that club: the one they first tried to get into with a fake ID, the one they got thrown out of on their 18th birthday, and the one they couldn’t wait to leave when they moved away from home – even if they still get pulled back every time they visit.

But with so many in the UK, which is categorically the most tragic? We decided to argue the case for our own awful yet brilliant hometown clubs – and let you decide…

Batchwood, St Albans

There’s nothing quite like your first visit to Batchwood – and if it was a Baby Batch, you’ll probably remember it quite clearly. The rambling Hollywood Hills stretch of Batchwood Drive, the Gatsby-like opulence of the manor itself, and the pure bafflement when you step inside and are greeted by – well, Batchwood.

It could be the glossy chandelier casting a shadow on the dancefloor, the towering vodka Coke-stained dancing podiums (RIP) or the tackily astroturfed smoking area which literally sells burgers: there’s no club in the world that quite matches up to Batchwood’s sheer shameless tackiness, even if the smelly carpets are a thing of the past. And whether you’re a Disco Room fanatic or prefer to order in a bottle in the Grey Goose lounge, one thing’s certain: you’d still go every fucking Friday if you could.

Casino, Guildford

Everyone who lived anywhere near Guildford knew about Casino. From hearing your parents tut at Michel Harper’s latest antics in the Surrey Ad  to being weirdly proud that it made the news (even if it was because Cheryl punched a toilet attendant) it was something to fantasise over. The torches over the doorway, like glistening beacons of debauchery, beckoned all who walked out of the back of the Friary.

Then you grew up. You realised that paying £8 to see Dappy make a half-arsed public appearance while you spent all your Saturday job money on those weird J bombs they served in a glass that looked like a timeturner from Harry Potter. Sure, in year 13 you may have had a few good MNGs that ended in Tuesdays in the common room smelling of cheap house vodka but now, when you’re back from uni, you see it for what it truly is: a grotesque caricature of regional clubbing.

The dancefloor is stickier than you remember, the VIP sections less glamorous and even the palm-tree’d smoking area has lost its shine. There’s some youths in bench jumpers and money jeans. The guys you went to uni to avoid are there, and while there may be an occasional banger played downstairs, at the end of the day it’s the shittest thing about Guildford and you’ll never understand why every beauty therapist from Fleet to Carshalton pays £40 for a cab just to try and charm their way into a place to stay so they don’t have to do the 20 mile trek home.

Prussia, Southport

You wouldn’t imagine Southport, a sleepy seaside town, has much to offer much in the way of nightlife. Enter Prussia (formerly Bar Non), an “end of the night” club once visited by Steven Gerrard. It’s where every “boss” night ends up because everywhere else is closed. Prussia, on the other hand, stays open until 6am.

Its most famous feature is a very steep staircase, which fills you with dread when you walk down into the rising sun, surrounded by seagulls and G Star Raw.

Oceana, Watford

We wouldn’t be seen dead in a club like this at uni, so what is it about the horrendous queues and obscene daggering in the Barcelona room that keeps drawing us back? With a select clientèle of Herts Sports Science students, 30-year-old milfs and plumbers called Gary, Oceana really is quite tragic.

The VIP room is where you’ll find the worst of the bunch – overeager estate agents blowing a week’s wages on a bottle of Veuve to impress the sixth formers who are pretty enough to get the wristband, after arriving at 10:30 to get in for free through WooWoos. You probably think you’ve finally met a nice guy in the disco room, but then he asks what shot you want when he offers to buy you a drink. You think you’re having a shit time, and when you remember you paid £10 for entry on a student night you realise it’s probably time to stop doing this.

Pryzm, Kingston

What the fuck is your excuse for ending up in here, a club with as many one-star Google reviews as there are stains in the carpet – a club seething with hate, with ugly people, ugly voices, ugly thoughts. It is dedicated to ugliness. In Pryzm Kingston I have seen rival hen parties draw blood; I’ve had my hand shaken by a man in a Crystal Palace shirt who refused to believe I wasn’t a member of the Arctic Monkeys; I’ve had my ex cry on my shoulder because a girl wearing a T-shirt with the caption ‘PORNSTAR’ poured a glass of red wine on her head.

Yes, it does cost nine pounds to get in. The main room is a theatre, where a chandelier hangs, waiting to drop. It smells like desperation and, as you look around, as you are assaulted by the question “why”, you start to realise there will be no redemption here. Not for you, not for anybody else.

Chicago’s, Stourbridge

When Chicago’s opened, it promised a breath of fresh air from the usual Chequers to Lloyd’s routine you’d embark on every Thursday without fail. But the reality was a far cry from the hopes and dreams it promised. You’d feel old as you watched your younger sibling’s mates turn up in skimpy outfits and outdrink you, and cringe as the crowd wooped and cheered along with songs you wished weren’t being played.

At least in Lloyd’s you can take your drinks outside when you want some air, and there’s enough room to host your own fashion shoot in the toilets.

Cameo, Eastbourne

Cameo underwent a £1m refurb in 2012, yet it is still rated on TripAdvisor as the 18th best nightclub in Eastbourne. Telling, when there are only really three clubs in Eastbourne: Cameo, TJs and Atlantis. Cameo also receives a staggering 2.6/5 Google rating.

Highlights include the “cheesy” top floor and R&B basement, and a stairwell likely to contain more bodily fluids than one cares to imagine. Friday nights are branded “Beatz Night” (yes, with a Z).

Roppongi, Oxford

Unsurprisingly, Oxford isn’t famed for its nightlife. Students are more likely found in the Bod at 2am rather than the Bridge smoking area. In an already tragic city, Rapongi is its unacknowledged summit, offering free entry and free shots on most nights you’d expect it to be rammed.

Unlike PT or Wahoo, it’s not so grim it’s good. It’s just grim.

Evoque, Preston

Evoque is an imposing building in Preston’s town centre that looks a bit like a swimming baths. What’s inside, though, is far from it. There are two types of clientele – the older, tattooed generation who remember it as Lava Ignite, and very young students, usually from Runshaw, or UCLan (although who can tell the difference). You usually can’t escape the sports socials and the fancy dress.

It has three floors, but the ground floor is where the magic happens (but beware of the notoriously tricky stairs on the way down). In the booths dotted around the dancefloor there’s always a group of boys thinking they’re ballers – there they can sit, drinking from their bottles, eyeing up the talent from afar. The smoking area isn’t exactly a release either – it resembles the backyard of an old terraced house.

Basically, if you ever find yourself in Preston, don’t go.

Escapade, Chesterfield

Going to Escapade’s underage night every Wednesday fortnight was like a coming-of-age ceremony. It was a brilliantly crazy mix of Coca Cola, Guru Josh Project, fingering, Tinchy Strider appearances and Wet Look hair gel. Guys competed over how many girls they got with (I think the record was 23) and girls did the same.

Shutting it down was probably for the best, judging by the amount of scathing one-star reviews which soil its memory online. But, for those of a certain age, teenage nights spent here were some of the most life-affirming and educational experiences you could have. It will never be forgotten.

Liquid, Windsor

To a certain extent, this club was magical. It had the power to unite the Slough Grammar with the Eton College. Something about Liquid encouraged people to put aside their differences to embrace the sweaty pool of sixth formers that waited for them inside. In all honesty, it could actually be really fun. Provided your definition of fun is seriously fucked up.

Truth is, when you’ve sobered up and the greasy, slimy people start to creep you out, you’ll leave early and be forced to pass the absolutely, 100 per cent definitely over 18 sixth formers slobbering over each other’s faces. You climb into the lift and once you’ve finally escaped you’re greeted with more police officers and security than Broadmoor Hospital (whose patients are probably inside).

They can change the name, they can change the layout and they can try to change their clientele, but Liquid (or “Atik”) always has and always will be the most tragic nightclub around.

Club One, Ascot

Club One is never a good idea. You’ll think it’s a good idea, because it’s next to Ascot racecourse and it’s always busy, but it’s not. But surely there has to be somewhere in this area filled with people who aren’t privately-educated children, I hear you ask?

Yes, of course! We can’t forget the people in the elderly home at the other end of the high street though, so please think of the noise you’re making as you leave the premises. There’s a bridge tournament tomorrow and after Royal Ascot it’s the most important social event in this part of Berkshire.

Winkers, Chalfont St Peter

It has a BBQ in the smoking area and it’s on a fucking farm – nowhere screams “hole” quite like the dive that is Winkers. A Bucks “treasure”, Winkers is where you made your Thursday night memories dancing to a mixture of the Macarena and S Club 7 in the cheese room while sipping on a VK.

You’ll have no problem getting kicked out for throwing up, so long as you don’t get it on the carpeted floors – but remember to take your chewies out of your clutch before you go in because the bouncers will just chuck your Extra Ice in the bin as for some reason, having fresh breath is banned.

Flares/Popworld, Guildford

The ugly little sister of Casino, Flares (it will always be Flares) sits proudly two doors down from the massive spoons in Guildford’s clubbing roundabout of hell. You knew you’d fucked an MNG if you ended up in Flares.

Yeah, you might be able to sneak in without paying because of the weird af booth thing to get in, but was it really worth it? Inside this savage hellscape, 40-year-old brides using penis straws litter the dancefloor, tiaras precariously balanced as they sway and you wonder if you’re in the splash zone of their cheeky vimto fishbowl. Then your mate pulls a 37-year-old whose husband sees you and then you can never ever go back because he knows the bouncers and he threatened to kill you and your mate, even though you didn’t do anything.

Atlantis, Eastbourne

On the end of Eastbourne Pier, Atlantis (or ATL as it is affectionately known) used to have a certain je-ne-sais-quoi. It was a grubby club, but it was our grubby club. They recently decided to refurbish, spending £750,000 on a “facelift” to replace the sticky floor, build white booths and install fancy lighting.

They even got rid of the cage – THE CAGE. Many a dream was realised in that cage. I mean it’s still there but it’s now a “platform” for dancers. They are building a “White room”, a self-professed “VVIP area”, with package deals ranging from free entry before 10:30pm up to £300 for a couple of bottles of Belvedere, a bottle of Moët and a round of shots.

This couldn’t be more out-of-place in Eastbourne: bring back the shots bar, VKs and, most importantly, the cage.

Club NEO, Yeovil

Club NEO. Before even getting onto the actual club, just look at the name: they choose to have the word “club” in the name, and then NEO in capitals just so the people who go there can sound out each letter without squinting too much to check that, yes, they have indeed found the most tragic club in Somerset and probably the entire West Country.

The patrons of club NEO are exclusively vulgar with a D- in English, looking to get as fucked up as possible. Sure, some big names have made appearances – if you can call Tinchy Stryder, Mark Wright and Amy Childs big. Tinchy stopped being relevant about ten years ago, and if you care enough to follow the lives of Amy and Mark, you’re just adding to the tragedy of the whole thing.

Everything at Club NEO screams out-of-touch. Even the resident DJ on a Friday night who plays “the best in dance and R&B” goes by the saddening name of DJ Clifty.

Rosie’s, Chester

It’s marginally worse than Cruise because it doesn’t have a cage- what it does have, though, is club appearances by the likes of the Chuckle Brothers. Rosie’s is redeemed by the fact it must be the only club in the UK with a hot dog stand inside. If you’ve never had a hot dog fight at the end of a night, you’ve never lived.

Central Square, Newport

A quad-vod has loosened you up in the Tav, a double has been added at the Shake, a pint has been drunk in the smoking area of the Phez, the Barley has given you a shot and now it’s time. The bouncers look at you and your license suspiciously as you enter Mainers, but you pay the fiver and go to the toilets.

There might be screws and coins in the bowl but it’s best to ignore them, wash your hands with a bar of soap the size of a 50p from the floor and head back upstairs to listen to Rudeboy. Minesweep some Moët and knock back a sticky, indeterminable black double and get so wasted you never remember that you fell off the stage while dancing to Timber.

Applejax, Chorley

Slap bang in the centre of Chorley is a blue beacon so bright, wayward revellers from as far as Whittle-le-Woods, Coppull and Clitheroe come to see its delights. Applejax, sometimes called “Slapperjax”, is Chorley’s only nightclub, and for that reason they’ll charge you an extortionate £6 to get in. Not to worry – there’s a dancefloor somewhere among the carpet (also blue), and it’s about one square metre wide so you can really grind to Pitbull with the overly friendly locals. There’s strange pipes on the wall meaning some compare it to a spaceship, and if you’re feeling a bit saucy, there’s a few poles upstairs (usually warm and greasy). You may have to wait though, because boy do the people of Chorley like to pole dance. It’s not all bad, though.

There is a reason AJs has amassed such a cult following among the North West’s clubbing scene – it’s open until 4am. So when you’re bored of The Tate, too old for The George, and far too “messy” for classier establishments like Cosmopolitan, it’s where everyone who’s anyone goes to finish up the night in style. And then instantly regret it.

Smack, Leamington

Named after a suitably deadly class-A drug, with interior design by Banksy and £1 vodbulls, Smack is actually quite a good hometown club. That said, the faux aura of cool which surrounds it is embarrassing: the moody bouncers may as well be securing Barack Obama’s VIP lounge on Air Force One, but instead they’re helping teenage girls out of the gutter and off on their way tottering down the spa town’s historic streets.

Maison, Stratford-upon-Avon

After Chicago Rock closed down you’d think Maison could do little wrong, a monopoly on Stratford’s nightclub market. But weird nights, £15 entry free drinks all night with a scorecard to prevent you from visiting the bar too frequently, and nefarious shenanigans meant Stratford’s only nightclub closed. It was that tragic.

Bought by Smack’s owners, the building’s fate can likely be read above.

Cruise, Chester

What did you expect from a place where you can drink Bazzalads and Cheeky Vimtos? At least you get free toast.

Mirage, Aylesbury

You didn’t come here to dance, or to socialise, but to freelance pole dance. As if those classy heels on the shiny stripper floors aren’t enough of a death trap, the ballsiest girls will waste no time attempting to do a full spin on the pole. But your smashed self will give it a go, as talking to that fit guy wearing the snapback and “Ballin’” top is all about breaking the ice – and maybe a few noses.

You’ll be bought a double vodka and lemonade, and implicitly ushered into the “private booths” which are about as intimately creepy as Harry Potter’s bedroom. You’ll wonder why the bench inside is sticky, and hate yourself for allowing your mind to think of the reasons why – say goodbye to your new lycra skirt.

The only logical reason for going to Mirage is that there is a Subway and McDonald’s right next door, and it’s well earned after the exercise involved in avoiding that creepy guy who kept on trying to give you money in Potter’s booth after your brief and impressive stint on the pole apparently established you as working girl.

Wonder World, Milton Keynes

Wonder World is the pinnacle of Milton Keynes’ club scene, sitting in all its splendour between Quicksilver and Five Guys in the heart of a city no-one understands. The black and gold décor that gives the illusion of luxury is a tactical facade: Wonder World is where MK’s finest go to meet the big  reality TV stars and pretend to be them.

Girls in tiny dresses totter in clutching purses on the tattooed arms of men in muscle-hugging T-shirts – together they file into the private suite where they gather in VIP booths and sip on vodka. Then the photographer comes around and the girls jump to their feet and form the usual line, standing sideways against each other arching their backs to extremes for full arse coverage and sporting the full duck pout. The guys, meanwhile, flex their muscles and squint as if they’re Armani models. At least Facebook will think it was a sick night.

Outside the VIP area the bar serves sweet spirit mixers in plastic cups and the near-empty dancefloor is dotted with over-hyped 18-year-olds or middle-aged women shrieking at each other. An amateur DJ plays plays a painful mix warming up for Ferne McCann’s big appearance. Wonder World, like the city it sits in, is a guaranteed flop.

Liquid, Colchester

If you’ve been to one Liquid you’ve been to them all, right? Well, I promise you nothing could prepare you for the sheer awfulness of a night at Liquid Colchester. First of all, you’re in Colchester – which already means you’re clubbing surrounded by meat-heads off the army base, TOWIE rejects and BTEC studiers. Class and refinement will be noticeably absent, especially as anyone with more than a handful of brain cells will be spending their night somewhere else.

Once you’ve accepted the company you keep, you have to get used to Liquid’s dancefloor, a peculiar, cramped space made more bizarre by the walkways around the side which make it too easy for gawkers to stand and watch people dance in the most unsettling manner possible. So if you’ve ever wanted to feel like you’re in a zoo that exclusively plays top 40 songs and serves VKs to the animals, you’re in the right place. If that’s not what you’re after, literally head anywhere else.

Missoula, Chelmsford

You want a classic Essex night out. You go there to see the white stilettos and orange tan the country has decided you’re famous for, and for once you’re ready to embrace Chelmsford and all it has to offer you. You swing by Missoula for some shots, and quickly realise it’s full of wannabe Essex boys from Hertfordshire. Hardly the big Essex night out you had planned.

Gravity, Grantham

Grantham is a town of migrating clubbers: you start in Gravity, then make your way to Ra Ra and finally to Late Lounge. Walk into Gravity on a Saturday night and head to the one (and only) dancefloor. It’s a weird mix of people from King’s and KGGS who went to uni and moved back or are just home for the weekend.

You come partly for the Pitbull and Rihanna tracks, and that strange garage revival medley the DJ round the corner sometimes drops. It’s mostly about the cheap shots like Death by Liquid, Slippery Nipple and Squashed Frog. Get kicked out for spilling your drink on someone’s fresh Superdry shirt? Just sneak around the back, everybody does it.

Cazbar, Stratford-upon-Avon

All Stratford now has left is a strip club. On a weekend, after ‘spoons kicks out at 1am, it’s the only place left serving alcohol. Do I want the £4 bottle of Budweiser or do I spend a bit more on a bottle of house white, flavours as sophisticated as battery acid?

I recognise that guy in the corner, who is it? Oh, it’s my dad.

Spiders, Hull

It may not be classy, but it sells toast, and has a 20p cloakroom. The downstairs is like a cross between a sex dungeon and a pub that still serves pork pie and mushy peas. A refreshing break from uni, no one tries to be something they’re not here – it prides itself on having an “anti-dance music policy” and even has a ban on “trendy clothes” or any sportswear.

Rest assured: there won’t be an Air Max or wavey vintage shirt in sight.

Fusion, Kent

Fusion is that one mate you have who’s 23 and his girlfriend’s 17, but insists age is just a number. Fusion is that friend you have whose first time was her boy best mate in the toilets at the park before he started trying it on with her best mate instead. Fusion is girls insulting bisexuality by getting with other girls for male attention. Fusion is an old man who mutters suggestive comments under his breath and pinches the nurse’s arses.

If Fusion was a person it would be all of the above and more. Located in Royal Tunbridge Wells, this club is essentially a flat above Marks and Spencer, because even the grossest club in the world finds a way to be middle class in Kent. There’s a stripper pole which is danced on only by lads thinking they are the Archbishop of Banterbury and a will probably Snapchat it with the caption “#absolute fucking madman”.

It doesn’t even have the common decency to be cheap and will insist on charging you over the odds to get to the level of pissed you need to be to last a night out here. And boy do you need to be pissed. If you grew up with #tnf being the night out for you, you will think the first club you go to after that is the best night out in the world. So for that reason, you can’t even be too annoyed with Fusion; any night out now, no matter what horrible things happen, you can say with a smile: “At least I wasn’t at Fusion.”

Fever, Aylesbury

Fever is a guilty pleasure, until you realise you’ve spent £40, including taxis, on a night that’s effectively as classy as a typical house party.

The ground floor is about as spacious as your living room, so as a girl it’s standard entering the club with the agreement of who’s going to be your girlfriend for the evening – you’ll use that excuse a lot to escape the advances of 30-year-old men in Rip Curl T-shirts during a Sean Paul number. In the smoking area, you’ll likely bump into former flames, or those rebellious kids who were kicked out of school in year 10 for lighting up a fag in the computer room. Either way, awkward small talk is essential.

The pop room upstairs is sure to make you feel like you’re tripping. The multi-coloured, flashing, dance floor combined with the mirror-covered walls make you feel like you’re in a music video for Steps. It’s a guilty pleasure – because it’s the only decent alternative to Mirage. And honestly, what do you expect from Aylesbury?

Central, Stamford

Have you ever been to a club where the dancefloor is completely empty – not because of the club being empty, but because the music is just that shocking? And you won’t find respite in the smoking areas – Central doesn’t have one. They have a fingerprint scanner out to the alley/entrance instead, and they allow you out for 15 minutes.

What makes it even worse is that the drinks cost a small fortune, and entry is £10 or so – it helps when you have a monopoly on the entire town trade.

The Trek, Seaford

Trek used to have hay in the corner of the dancefloor to mop up the spilled drinks, beer and God knows what else. It was once free entry, and the whole town went into uproar when it was hiked up to an eye-watering one pound. Extortion.

Glam, Cardiff

Glam is Cardiff’s attempt at replicating a classy big city club. It’s run by a guy called Jordan from MTV’s The Valleys- the show that gave everyone outside of Wales the impression that the Welsh are fake tan clad, STD-ridden alcoholics.

Everything about Glam is tacky: the black and pink decor, the £1.50 “Jakob Bombs” and the constant demands of the DJ to “put your fucking hands up.” Classy? I think not.

MooMoo Clubrooms, Fleet

Jaxx was always dead on a student night when it wasn’t the summer holidays – imagine having two rooms but having to keep one of them closed because it wasn’t full enough. However on nights like A-level results it would be absolutely rammed, just because nobody had anywhere else to go. After the revamp which turned Jaxx into “MooMoo Clubrooms” there are now not two, but THREE rooms – even if they usually don’t open the third anyway.

The whole thing is “underground”, but by “underground” they just mean it’s under a Waitrose and you can’t get any phone signal. They also tried to be really cool and kitschy and serve drinks in those cups that look like 1950s milkshakes – it’s like, babes, just give me my vodka Coke in a fucking normal cup. To top it all off, the smoking area is the Waitrose delivery area for the vans. Tragic.

But all that said, it’s the only club we have – so we have to just embrace it.

SLVR/Tiger Tiger, Croydon

Ironically given its name, barely anybody has been to SLVR since the world’s number one club, Tiger Tiger, shut down earlier this year. Tiger Tiger had an uncanny ability to make you forget you were in London – you could’ve been in Mayfair. Well maybe St James’.

You don’t get this in SLVR, as you walk around gripping your valuables tightly in your pockets and doing your best to avoid eye contact with anyone you pass. You almost find yourself wishing the drinks cost more.

Legends, Gillingham

A club which proclaims itself as “Legends” can only ever be far from legendary. In fact, most of the inhabitants of Dorset are shocked to hear that Legends Club is still open. Legends pulls in either no-one or hordes of 15-year-olds coming for the banging under-18 nights, a mix of local louts and Catholic school girls from St Mary’s Shaftsbury trying their luck.

The club that everyone loves to hate, Legends is such a hit it even gives free bus rides to and from the local town to quite literally force people to come. The VIP area is kept behind glass doors so the local celebs can separate themselves from the five old men gyrating to Justin Bieber on the huge sweaty dance floor, and the bartenders will even strip for you (if you promise to buy a drink first).

The Sugarmill, Stoke-on-Trent

More of a rock venue than a night club, let’s face it – the only reason you choose to have a mad Friday night here is because you saw Hadouken! grace the stage once when you were 14 and can’t let that go.

The Diamond Tap, Newbury

The DT can be defined as a “pub club”, where after the last Fish Friday meal has been served, the tables and chairs are pushed back and a 40-year-old-plus DJ comes in to provide the youth of Newbury, Berkshire what they want: chart hits, a Queen melody and a guaranteed good time. Class, grace, morals and dignity leave you when you agree to pay the £3 entry to DT, which is part of the Wetherspoons family.

Since the well-known uproar of 2014 when the £1.99 double vodka Redbull deal went off the menu on a Friday night due to the ever-growing popularity of the clubpub, the dark abyss is riddled with even more 18-year-olds per time you return in the holidays – everyone from your school who you waved off thinking you’ll never see again will undoubtedly be on the dancefloor grinding on you and stepping on your toes.

Residents of Newbury and surrounding Berkshire area tell themselves they will never return, but they always do: because they love the cheap drinks, cheap thrills, and the dirty feeling you get when you wake up from a night at The Diamond Tap.

Lola Lo’s, Cambridge

Imagine a school disco filled with Jägerbombs, and that’s essentially what you get when you enter the Lola Lo’s of Cambridge: it epitomises appalling Cambridge nightlife when you realise you’re actually the oldest person in there.

You’ll get stuck on the stairs when you go up to the smoking area to get some high demand oxygen away, and that’s when you’ll realise how tragic a night it is – when the smoking area bar is busier than the one in the actual club.

The Venue, Torquay

The colloquially-named “venue” undoubtedly gets its reputation from its awkward layout and sticky fancy floor. That said, Venue will be a sad loss to the Torquay night scene. Because no matter how much of a shithole it is, it’s our shithole.

Air & Breathe/Zens, Dartford

There are ballroom stairs, but all the girls in there are anything but princesses – likewise there are lines and lines of Grey Goose bottles behind the bar, but you’ve never actually seen anyone buy one.

Every boy you’ve ever kissed from Bexley, Bromley, Dartford and Gravesend will be seen there, and by the time you’ve got a vodka Red Bull you’ll probably have been started on by Stacey with the terrible eyebrows because you “pushed in”.

The Balcony, Isle of Wight

The Isle of Wight is famed for being a UK tourist destination, not so much for clubbing – probably because every other club has shut down (RIP Bogies, a club worthy of being on concert square).

The Balcony is full of the locals in the winter, and tourists in the summer – complete with sticky floors and expensive drinks. Essentially this is a seaside Yates’, yet every time you venture home you end up here.

At least it’s better than staying in Newport, and at least we have Trevor the DJ.

Vodka, Winchester

The fact that it’s free entry before midnight says a lot about Vodka and its clientele – it’s a shitpit. Two floors of “bangers” fill your ears as you get down on a dance floor the size of your mum’s living room – but size doesn’t matter, you’re mostly limited to flailing arm movements anyway because your feet are glued to the mysteriously sticky floor.

Need a smoke and a brief holiday to paradise? Have no fear, the bamboo-clad smoking area and shot girls will make you feel a thousand miles away. They try to make you forget it, but you know you don’t want to be here. Yet somehow week after week you just keep crawling back into this pit of debauchery and bad dancing.

By 1am you want to leave but the squad are all wrapped around various people while you sit alone drinking your overpriced jägerbombs, trying to fend off underage Nike-clad predators. The night will probably end with you crawling into a taxi with your Domino’s and vowing to never enter that club again, but deep down you know you’ll be back next Frisky Friday.

Contributions from Will Lloyd, Nathan Coogan, Natalie Campbell, Celina Brar, Laura Fitzpatrick, Sarah Whibley, Oli Dugmore, Josh Kaplan, Cat Reid, Robert Firth, Ben Clarke, Meg Ward, May Bulman, Callum McCulloch, Isabella Eckert, Grace Vielma, Lauren Raine, Jack Cummings, Paul Gosling, Sascha Morgan-Evans, Tegan Marlow, Ben Foreman, Flo Strachan, Simone Bishop, Lucy Woodham, Megan Earl, Kirsty Batten, Holly Hickman, Matthew Guy and Charley Scoggins

Do you think your hometown club deserves to be added to the mix? Tell us why at [email protected]