I was refused entry to a club on Saturday night. A party of six of us made the slightly booze-influenced decision that we’d go to G-A-Y at Heaven to see Jedward perform there. Yes, I know, but it sounded like fun at the time, and it was still early, and why not?
Well, we got there and the two women in our group were turned away by the female bouncer. “She can’t come in, she’s drunk”, she said as she herded my companion down the “rejects” funnel. Then she looked at me. “And you too.” I didn’t feel drunk. “What have I done?”, I said. “I’m not drunk!”. (I was, a bit.) “You’re with her”, she explained, as she sent me down the same path.
The four men in our party had been allowed in, but, gentlemen that they are, they left with us after we were turned away. But the whole experience was absolutely mortifying, and in trying to work out why I felt so humiliated I realised that I don’t think we were turned away for being drunk, or even for being women, which was what we decided at the time: I think we were turned away for being too old and too uncool for G-A-Y at Heaven, and though I know in my heart of hearts that I am too old and too uncool (and, yes, possibly too female) for G-A-Y at Heaven, it’s distressing to have it publicly confirmed.
So here’s my new-month’s resolution: from now on, I will only frequent pubs for grown-ups, where nobody assesses my suitability on the way in, and I’m allowed to hang on to my bottled water all evening. Take that, G-A-Y at Heaven!