A Goldsmiths student went to Loop, and this is what she thought

I’m at Goldsmiths student and, having spoken to UCL students, the only nights out they ever seem to have are at Loop. I had to check it out, partly out of interest, but partly because everyone seems to be a bit ill at the moment, so from a purely evolutionary point of view it ensured the pick of a superior gene pool.

I was initially confused as to why it’s called The Loop: Loop would surely be so much better as I’m sure Mark Zuckerberg would agree. Anyway, I was ready to go and cautiously optimistic of what was to come. After a short journey we walked into the bustle of The Loop. There’s tens of people milling around, it’s dark, there’s a constant hubbub of music and yelling. Basically, it’s a club.

There are countless people dressed up in all kinds of outfits,  something which reminds me what we’ve left at Goldsmiths where gender neutral toilets are the norm and science subjects don’t exist. There, if people res up it’s usually because they fancy it that day, not because they’re conforming to a dress code. There’s also so many plain clothed people. The boys are wearing clothes, like just clothes they’ve probably thrown together last minute. Why is no one wearing Adidas ironically, how am I the only person reppin Nike Air Forces? There’s literally no glitter or snazzy shirts. “If I went to UCL I’d have a husband by now,” my friend utters in wonder as we beeline for the toilet.

It looks like this and it’s in the South East of London

There are BOYS everywhere, actual boys that like girls and don’t EVER do ket and probably don’t even like art. The queue is so quick, people must be actually having a wee instead of doing drugs. Most boys here seem straight, if a little weird. They also all seem to do Economics. We queue for a drink which takes us a couple of million years. I don’t think I have ever waited that long to be served. There was a heaving, yelling mass of people who seemed  thirstier than a mole who’d just come out of hibernation. Everyone was there, and you can understand supply and demand were not proportional.

A large surprise of the evening was Beer Pong. A larger surprise was there were cups of free alcohol and everyone was participating in this weird, sticky game where instead of drinking this FREE BOOZE they were throwing balls in it and laughing. I had a go and befriended a toga with biceps and I wasn’t very good. I realised maybe taking so long to serve drinks was actually a clever tactic for sobering people up and making them buy more.

We sat down next to a guy who looked like Gimli from Lord of the Rings. Gimli would be our friend for the night, the Virgil to our Dante. After I had bought another drink for a couple of quid and my first born, Gimli asked if we had seen the other floors. It was quite shocking really we had spent a good half of the night making it across the floor, waiting for drinks, playing some beer pong and befriending the toilet lady. I like clubs that have more than one floor or room,  we now had a purpose in the club, a sense of adventure filled our hearts and we walked to the stairs, Gimli following close behind.

Downstairs was the humid heart of the club, there was a central dance floor, slightly raised, with what looked like the entirety of UCL dancing there. The weirdest thing was people were GETTING OFF. All around. Everyone was in a frenzied state of osculation, as if they were trying to resuscitate each other from the pressures of Uni. This doesn’t happen at Goldsmiths, it just doesn’t, people just dance and stuff. Everyone was so eager, and so straight. Boys had an odd tactic/mating ritual of dancing up behind a girl and holding their waist. That aside, the chart music was fun. It was really hard to find the DJ but he’s in the far corner if anyone wants to know.

We ended the night by checking out the smoking area. There’s an interesting mix of people in the smoking area – David Attenborough jump on this – amongst those you encounter: the roadmen who just come outside to smoke, the person who goes outside to socially smoke and doesn’t actually have any fags (“can you roll me one mate, hey mate please can you roll me one”), someone who thinks they’re sick because they’ve been three times before (“I can get you kicked out, I know the bouncers”), and the posh girl who’s telling the roadmen she’s been to Africa and helped the children while wearing cornrows. Anyway with that we left the central bubble and with a sigh of relief ventured back to the sanctuary of the South-East.