Guildford is by far the most tragic hometown to go out clubbing in

One word. Casino.


From the 80’s shitpop hell that is Popworld, to the dungeon-like grot of Casino’s toilets, getting down in the capital of Surrey is not for the faint-hearted. Clubbing in Guildford: how bad can it be?

Pre-drinking in Wetherspoons becomes a preparation for battle. Friends gather, solemnly glug their pitchers and trudge through the shattering blast of grime beats. Good luck if you’re attempting to buy a shot. Has no one thought of employing – ya know – extra staff? All locals will admit that if you manage to get more than a single round in, you’re having a great night.

Gormless lads prowl across the top floor of the Rodboro Buildings, adhering to an evening wear of Adidas dress code – a vain attempt to cloak their Royal Grammar School roots in chintzy sportswear. So what if they can’t quite stretch to a night out in London – they would make Guildford their own instead. Dr Dre has Compton, they have Onslow Street.

Sat with a Pepsi and Vodka in a converted car factory, surrounded by fads more severe than the price of our drinks, it is like a scene from Peaky Blinders only with worse music and more trust funds.

This is when you must make your grueling choice. Which club?

Popworld Guildford cannot be taken seriously. It is stripy, purple and filled with the sort of giggling teenagers whose idea of a messy night is a single blue WKD and some mildly sinister Hiddleswift gossip. Attempting to drown out the ABBA by getting shitfaced and you’ll find yourself frowned upon.

Mention Guildford nightlife and you’ll only get one reply: Casino.

Casino, and its MNG night in particular, is like marmite. Some love it. Some hate it. Privately however, we all agree it’s a bit shit, and somehow smells funny. The jet black exterior is bedecked in medieval torches and blacked-out windows. As a child, I used to be wary walking past it. I still am.

You catch a strong waft of Jägermeister whenever you walk down past the teeming one-way system outside the Friary. It doesn’t matter if it’s midday on a Wednesday, you will smell it before you see it.

Things do not improve as you collect your ticket and stumble inside Casino. Thumping Stormzy tunes guide you towards the dancefloor; a hive of spilt drinks, terrible dancing and that group of middle-aged blokes with rampant insecurity complexes, downing their fiftieth drink to prove how lightweight the kids are these days.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve enjoyed some of the best nights of my life in Casino. Friends are willfully encouraged to get utterly trashed, and we all embrace the sheer average-ness of Guildford life. The chino-wearing middle-classes screaming Skepta lyrics, douchey dancing abounding, and having a drunken chat with those mates you haven’t seen since primary school. It can be brilliant.

I’ve got messier than I will ever get at uni in this eccentric palace of vomit opposite the Rodboro Buildings. I’ve crawled from the toilets to the smoking area on my hands and knees, mocked my distraught mate as he smoked a cigarette the wrong way round, and consumed enough Jägerbombs to keep me awake for a week. Embarrassing memories, sure. Painful ones too. But memories nonetheless. Casino is like a bad relationship. You know it should end. You know you both deserve better. But you keep coming back for more regardless.

In a way though, you may knock clubbing in Guildford but it is because it is so tragic that you have a bittersweet love towards it.