The next time one of my casual friends tells me that she pursues an active nightlife "to feel fully alive", I must remember to pack her off for an emergency brain scan, to see if the grey matter is still operational, or if that caivty in her skull is, as I have often suspected, filled with vodka instead.

How can one feel anything at those flaming-hot, ultra-trendy nightspots she frequents, which are such a grevious assault on the senses? For starters, sa if some clubs aren't already dark enough, half the regular myopic and night-blind customers remove their eyewear before swanning in because they want to look good on their night out, so most of the time, these glamourpusses can't see a thing.

Then there's the music, which is so loud that you have to learn to lip-read in a jiffy if you want to communicate with anyone at all. You can't hear anything being said, or shouted, or screamed. All the best to the person yelling "Fire! Fire!" from the back exit - he'll be the only one to get out alive because no one else will hear him.

And the smells - even now that smoking is no longer allowed in these places, one experiences an overload of that incredible mix of half-evaporated alcohol, bad perfume, heavy pespiration wafting from the dance floor, sour-breath disguised by too-strong mints, and deep fried finger food.

Yet, some party animals think all that isn't enough, and aim to numb their senses further with oodles of alcohol.

So, my friend, let me see if I've got this straight: you go to a place where you can't see, can't hear and can't smell properly in order to feel fully alive?

Ohh-kaaay.

I hope you're happy the next time you spend the night dancing with someone you think is your date but turns out to be a total stranger who is amazed that you would come on to him at all like that, and completely miss the fact that your boyfriend has been busy snogging the hot waitress in the corner - he's been two-timing you for three years, only you never had a clue because every time you saw her in that dark club without your glasses on, you thought she was a crad-board cut-out he liked to lean against.

And when you find out eventually, and try to retaliate by having a fling of your own, you slip a wandering hand under the table at the pub round the corner from the office to stroke the firm muscular thigh of Mark from Sales, only to discover later that in the darkness, amid the chaos created by alcohol and noise, you were in fact groping your boss's unmentionables, and will have to spend the rest of the year fending off his advances now that he thinks you have the hots for him, resplendent as he is with his red nose and beer belly.

By the by, that thing you tried to eat with your margarita wasn't an extra-rubbery buffalo wing, but the hot waitress's discarded mini-thong. There's still a bit of elastic stuck in your teeth, but never mind, you probably can't feel a thing with your vodka-numbed tongue.

This article was first published in The New Paper on 17 October, 2008.