Brighton’s pubs will always be better than its clubs

Something so unique to the Great British culture is our traditional pubs. A warm, comfortable place to socialise, eat, watch football and get absolutely  hammered. Here a wide selection of ales, spirits, and even cocktails, are on offer. You can talk to the barman/maid about how their day has been and share a funny story and get to know them on a personal level – so next time you order a vodka and lemonade they might just stick a extra shot in it.

As a previous barman, I had my fair share of odd people come into my pub. From the locals who are in the pub so often they might as well pay rent to the first timers who are a mix of tourists and people on a pub crawl. There is a sense of personality in all pubs.

All the lads

Even for those who wish to find a place to get out of the rain the pub welcomes you with open Wi-Fi, coffee, newspapers, and quiz machines. The food on offer is both cheap and delicious giving that homely feel. Lost your friends? No problem! He is found instantly when you look across the room and see him talking to a girl who he charms and takes her number for a date. The end of the night comes and you ask the barman to call you a taxi whilst you wait indoors. You enter the taxi, its around midnight and you’re ready for bed.

Heaven

Compare this to a club, a loud obnoxious place full of creepy guys and vain girls where you wait half an hour for a watered down vodka redbull. This typical club has people trying to either hug you or punch you, where you have to scream at the top of your voice over the boring deep house playlist to tell your friend you’re going to the toilet.

It is here you meet the “lookie” man, a fly around shit trying to spray Joop Homme over your already smelly aftershave. The floor is wet and you hope that it is because someone has just spilled their drink. Someone is sniffing behind the toilet door stalls and you know that its not because they have a bad cold.

Everyone enjoying themselves clubbing…

This is when you lose your mates, and you’re trying to look over the sea of people to find them and push every twat wearing a blazer out of your way. Phone is dead, and even if it had battery there is no way they could hear you over the generic music chart rubbish.

You decide to perhaps dance on your own and this is when you have the sudden realisation that you may not be good looking as you may have thought. Where previously you relied on your charm and wit to woo the ladies, the club scene becomes a marketplace for people to choose their fruit and you’re a rotting apple.

So its the end of the night, and you have no idea if your friends have been kicked out or are looking for a twos on a cigarette in the smoking area. You’re on the seafront, windy, smelling like the perfume section in Boots thanks to the “lookie” man. Taxis’ charge a premium since they’re right next to the club and you’re stuck on the N25 on your own.

Should’ve just stayed at the pub.