Ten years on; an anthropological study of Oceana.
Last night’s visit to Oceana in Kingston, for a friend’s annual
trip home from Australia, has given me an insight into a) how much has changed
in ten years from when I would have frequented such a place, and b) how little
has changed.
The air is still thick with insecurity, desperation and
expectedness of what the night may bring, although the layer of cigarette smoke
that would have once hung from the Titanic-esq ceiling has been replaced with
the smell of fake tan and Lynx.
Tits and Teeth are the order of the day as Cheryl Cole wannabes
pour their bodies into a collection of parrot-coloured, ill-fitting dresses (at
least we’re safe in the knowledge they’re keeping Bay Trading and Jane Norman
in business), overly fake tanned carrot legs are supported by equally colourful
platform hooker-heels and bleached blonde hair, straightened to within an inch
of its life, perfectly compliments the excessive make-up.
The boys aren’t much better; deep v-neck t-shirts, skinny
ties and waistcoats help them resemble an X Factor audition line-up, with most
looking as if they have run through TopMan covered in superglue.
The girls (as always) are the first to head to the dance
floor, charged with potent cocktails of vodka and Red Bull and resembling
newborn foals unsteady on their feet. Mobile phones in one hand, clutch bags
and digital cameras in the other, they huddle around to Facebook (read: stalk)
boys they’ve just met. This facade of sophistication and confidence rapidly descends
to dancing barefoot, stumbling into each other and waving their hands in the
air to SClub7. Nothing changes there.
A few brave males grace the dance floor before midnight,
trying their luck on the still relatively sober girls. I use ‘grace’ in the
loosest of forms; they are merely shuffling whilst being careful not to spill
their bottle of San Miguel… “it’s Spanish, innit?” was overheard at one point.
Why they don’t just go in for the kill later when the girls are far easier
prey, I have no idea. This is something men never learn.
The alpha-females are still left untouched; men assuming
(quite rightly) they are out of their league, yet those brave enough to take a
chance are shot down with one killer look as allies rally around to protect their
leader. These girls are generally waiting for the next footballer; no
call-centre supervisor would have a look in, even if he spends most of his
weekend down the gym honing his well oiled body and used to be the coolest kid
in school back in the day.
The queue for the ladies never changes, it’s always
obscenely long, but neither does what goes on inside. Girls still cram themselves
two by two into cubicles, sniping sideways comments about who’s wearing what
and who slept with who last week. Rimmel lipstick and Juicy Tube lip gloss is applied
and reapplied, faces mattified and false eyelashes glued back on. The only new
addition, aside from the sex-toy vending machine (seriously), is a coin
operated hair straightener (of which there was a queue by 11:30pm) which, if I
was still into over-straightened hair, isn’t such a bad idea.
Really not a lot has changed from when I was 18. And I’m not
that surprised. The pick-up techniques haven’t changed; girls still stare directly
ahead at the bar, trying not the catch the eye of the shy guy standing next to
her desperate for her to glance in his direction so he can attempt a
conversation (NB: these are usually the guys worth talking to; their flashier counterparts
on the dance floor will be later seen down a back ally with the local bike). The
technology of course makes a difference; at least we can now pretend to be
engrossed in a text message whilst waiting for the inept bar staff to serve us
a seven quid vodka and tonic in a plastic glass (no ice, no lemon).
The drink du jour will change, the music will change and rarely
will you see a group of girls without at least one face lit up by the screen of
her mobile phone as she masters the art of TUI (Texting Under the Influence), but
the boys will still think that pawing a girl, sliding their hands onto her
waist and slurring into her ear will guarantee a snog. It didn’t work in 1999,
it’s not going to work now.
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