Cathy compares a typical Trent night to a good old fashioned Notts night. Let battle commence!
If I thought my foray into a Nottingham Trent night out was going to explode any stereotypes…well, I was wrong.
By chance, I was coerced to accompany my friend to her Fresher netball initiation at the Nags Head on Mansfield Road, followed by Trent fave Templars and rounded off by a Wednesday AU night at Ocean. Dressed as a carrot (the theme for the night), I threw myself wholeheartedly into being a Trent netball player. (If asked, my degree specialised in Underwater Photography with dance studies on the side.) In all honesty, I could lie and say I was disgusted at the chants “I’m goal defence and my blow jobs are immense”, but after downing copious amounts of pink liquid faintly reminiscent of white spirit out of huge containers, I was warbling with the best of them.
With regards to the company, everywhere I looked, VEG (Very Excitable Girls) were raving about each others’ paint-on tans and their ‘banterlicious’ outfits. Of the Trent male counterparts, I thought I was in with a chance with one guy in Ocean, despite the lurid orange face paint and green hair dye. However, he confused the ‘QMC’ with ‘KFC’ and I spent the best part of the night explaining that I don’t live near the fried chicken shop. Needless to say, he lost interest pretty quickly…
The major difference with Trent nights are the sheer number of people in fancy dress. Bunnies, Baywatch, and even a few throwbacks from Farthing Wood were eagerly chewing the faces off each other (charming to see that Ocean is, and always will be, a cattle market). My tale of woe ended aptly at the burger van outside the club. Trying not to appear too over-zealous with my newfound Trent personality, I overheard a girl asking what VD stands for. Anyone who thinks that it’s a new cocktail is a legend in my book.
For a comparison with Nottingham University nights out, I chose the classic Isis (and liver failure) to be the place to party the week after my Trent venture, and to see just how different the venue and clientele are. Isis needs no introduction: its trademark vodka Red bull and pole dancers can reduce even the most tousled-hair rah to a common townie when 3am rolls around. As my mate so eloquently put it, both clubs are “fucking nasty”. Albeit much of the Uni crowd didn’t look as if they’d had a dodgy hair-straighteners accident, the pace seemed much less frenetic, and the DJ even cheesier “if you don’t like it, NAFF OFF”. As for my night, it soon turned into the usual crisis, (albeit without as many hair extensions or Very Excitable Girls) and I ended my night face down outside, you’ve guessed it, the burger van. I guess some things are constant whether Trent or Uni nights. The conclusion of my Wednesday night adventures? Nottingham Uni students know that NASA does mean something other than “Nice Arse, Shag Alert”.