Oh my gawd I went clubbing in England.

I promised my colleague, who is here on training assignment from Australia, and I quote this, "a quiet night out."

I was wrong.

Had he been there earlier, it was quiet. It started out quiet. Laughing, a beer or two being consumed, a night garden evening in Jericho... and then it all went a bit off center. At first we frolicked at the Victoria, then the Jericho Tavern - home to Radiohead. I thought that this would be a lovely evening where he, our neophyte for new work, would relax and chat with people from all around the world.

However.

By the time my dear, beloved, adored colleague arrived they (the group) had decided we were done with quiet. We were done with Jericho and it's art scene and it's party groups dressed in sequins and Island Party wear, (this is subdued people) we were going to a cocktail bar. His arrival hailed with drunken waves and random hellos, we were off to Angels. Which, I believe, means you have to physically be a spirit of some holy nature in order to actually fit into this shoebox of a cocktail bar.

It's been awhile since I had to scream in order to maintain a conversation. I believe at one point he screamed at me he had gotten a phone call from his best friend saying that they had just had a healthy baby girl. I would like to send them my sincere apologies along with my congratulations. I think the last time I did anything like this was Goth Night at the Florida Theatre. I believe I was 20.

As soon as we managed to wedge ourselves into the place we were pushed out, headed to a ... dare I say this without a laugh or a cringe... dance club. One of the group knew a door person, and suddenly, seemingly in a blink of an eye I was plunged into the sickly sweet meat market smell of so many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many, many

many, many, many years ago.

For those who don't know me I grew up in a beach town full of these dance clubs. They were interesting to me when I was 13. By the time I hit college people wanted to go to my home town to party for Spring Break. Not my bag. If I had gone home it would have been, well, odd.

There we stood. Me, this 30-something holding a beer standing next to a 30-something quiet, nice person I had met a week ago and promised an equally quiet night out. I applaud the fact he took it all in stride. We screamed comments about the crowd. The barely dressed women. The overly self-conscious men. The people who you could tell wanted just to be loved. The ones you hoped that wouldn't regret tomorrow. All amongst the throbbing bass and popped collars and cheap cocktails and glowing puffer fish light fixtures.

I can say with absolute conviction that clubbing is officially universal. The same people with different accents working their mojo. I honestly marveled at being there the way I marveled at the first time I realized I was in Rome, Dubai, or working and living in England. A whole new scene, a whole new culture.

He decided to stay, my colleague. I left him in the glow of neon bracelets and people who were constantly feeling him up on their way to the loo (I stopped counting after 5). At that point they were spinning C-n-C Music Factory and I began feeling truly ancient. I hope he makes it out of there in one piece.

Oh please or I will never hear the end of it.