Clubs, they're the light at the end of that five-day-long tunnel of shit. They are the reminder that life is only 80 percent bad. The temporary respite from reality that they provide - those few hours lived in a cavernous netherworld with people we’ve never met and music we’ve never heard - make all the stress and angst tolerable. And in an age where most pubs are as unwelcoming and expensive as any Surrey country club, they're more important than ever. They are our temples, youth clubs, Masonic halls and bowling greens all in one.
But as with nearly everything, if we're not careful, it'll all go to shit - just look at Ibiza. These days, in Britain, many nights are overpriced, oversized and over-subscribed. Your garden-variety part-time promoter seems to be more interested in being Donald Trump than Tony Wilson and the spirit of philanthropy has given way to profiteering. Those scumbags who would once have been renting boxrooms in Walthamstow to foreign students as "Dalston warehouse living" have realised that young people are as interested in paying for clubbing as they are for food. And now they're trying to turn your night out into their retirement fund.