Dumchuk Dumchuk Dumchuk

Clubbing is an art form. There is more to it than meets the eye. I mean, not everyone is cut for it. I for one, could never get it even if I wanted to.

My first two times at a club were total disasters. The decibel level made me sick and honestly I couldn't imagine how anyone could enjoy this cacophony. The next two were illuminating. I was out with some French guys (there are always some in our department) and believe me the French know to party. So, I learnt a few things from 'mes amis' about clubbing (How they can drink, get drunk and party till 3 or 4 in the morning and come back to work next day, I would never know).

I have figured out that there are two main techniques or approaches that one deploys to pick up a girl.

The first one I discovered when I was out with Monsieur J. We had given him the nickname Desperado. Not because he looked anything like Antonio Banderas but because he was desperate (very very) to get laid. (Run American Pie in your head). His approach, which we have christened AK-47, is to spit fire mercilessly in all directions in the hope that you hit something.

In the one hour I was with him in the club, he must have thrown a line for twenty fish, and several of them already had their teeth on someone's hook. That shouldn't deter a braveheart, should it? Despite being humiliated and ignored by all of the twenty women, our hero was smiling and with enough hope to eclipse a kid on Christmas morning, went after girl no. 21. Apparently a jug of whiskey (or Bourbon-Coke) immunises you from all sorts of insult. I left at girl no. 25 and I was told the next day that his lucky number was 47 (and is usually between 35-55). That he had ammo for 47 rounds astounds me. It is hardwork and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

The next time I went clubbing was with a different bunch of Frenchies (6 months later). Messieurs E, F, G, a couple of Cs and a P were with me. Both Cs, E and G had girlfriends back in France and were loyal to them even when they weren't around to check (Duh???). Mr. P was married and even had children and wasn't going to mess around. The only single and available person in that group was F. (And yours faithfully too, but I don't count). We were just mucking about, trying to speak over the din of the dumchuk dumchuk dumchuk (try yelling) and I was using my new French vocabulary to great effect (I was learning to swear in Français).

M'sieur F was standing with us, ofcourse. Silently sipping his Vodka-Lime. I was surprised, in that I was expecting him to go hunting and here he was hanging out with us dancing to Shakira's Hips don't lie and singing along the new Australian Idol Damien Leith's Night of my life (does it matter that I didn't know the lyrics and was only moving my lips. In that blaring noise, did anyone know? or care?). I wouldn't be lying if I said that I believed him to be one of us nerds.

Then, suddenly, bham! I see him talking with a hottie. Bought her a drink and danced a number or two and before I knew what was going on, off they went. Need I say that he saw some action that night. And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is what I call the 'Naarai trick'.

Naarai is the Tamil word for Crane (the bird) and I remember a poem from long long ago that talked of a Naarai which waited patiently on one foot for the right fish. It let small fish pass by. It even let them peck at its one leg. But stationary it stood until the big game, mistaking it for a stem or something got nearby. Then bham! it dove in and grabbed the unwitting juicy one with its strong beak.

When I mistook F for a nerd, he was scope-ing on one leg. An unattached babe comes in with a gaggle and in microseconds he had her caught up in his charm. Now beat that.

That's why I say Clubbing is an art form and there is more to it than meets the eye. I mean, not everyone is cut for it. I for one, could never get it even if I wanted to. My interest in it was (and is) purely academic. But if you do want to try it, the AK-47 or the Naarai, hope this helps.