He's Only Got One Ball

It is time.

Tonight, James and I will be tallying forth to Colonel Bogey's, which is, if the advertising is to be believed, the Island's 'Premier Nightspot'. I imagine this is achieved through all of the other places calling themselves 'nightclubs'.

Bogey's holds a special place in my heart. It remains to this day the only drinking establishment on earth to ask me for ID, shortly after my 18th birthday. The bouncer didn't unfold my driver's license to check my date of birth, he just grunted and handed it back.

Welcome to Bogey's!

Bogey's! The club which our group of friends attended most - despite the predatory middle-aged hordes, the appaling decor and music, the watery beer. We went because it was Bogey's, and that was that.

Bogey's! The best time to go was 80s night, when all pints and shots were a heartwarming 80 pence, and even those of us without part-time weekend jobs could get agreeably plastered and forget about coursework or exams!

Bogey's! Where dancing was rare, but arrhythmic gyration and staggering was practically de rigeur!

Bogey's! Where everyone was your friend, especially towards the end of the night!

Bogey's!

Well, time passes, things change, prices rise, music tastes alter. It was inevitable that Bogey's would have to evolve too.

Apparently it is 90s night, and all pints and shots are 90 pence.
Shocking.
Just shocking.

An Aside

After having attended this place for so many years, I started wondering who the hell Colonel Bogey was.

There's something about golf in there (an Army Colonel, extraordinarily bad at golf, eschewed 'Fore!' and instead announced impending brain death to those in the way with a natty five-note-scale) but apparently, 'Colonel Bogey' is the name of the march best known for the ahem 'unofficial' lyrics -

"Hitler - has only got one ball, the other - is in the Albert Hall..."

How appropriate.

More blogging when my brain cells rally to the remuster call.