An Illustrated Guide to the Five Male Clubbers From Hell

We like clubbing, obviously, but it's not all rosy down in the basement. With the help of London-based illustrator Josh Hanton, we've decided to run through the five worst dudes you'll probably run into this weekend, and every other weekend thereafter.

You know the type: his favorite film's The Godfather and his favorite band is Sublime. Favorite book? "Don't really read that much, if I'm honest man." Pushed to give you an answer, he'll root for a Harry Potter—"Any of them, they're all great." He's wandered into the club by accident. His bros have vanished and there he is, clutching a sweaty tallboy of warm lager, unsure of what to do with himself. He spends hours rooted to the spot, gingerly checking his phone—there are no texts to read, no new tweets to respond to—hating everything around him but powerless to change it. He's stuck, and just seeing him standing there, trying to smile through the pain, is enough to ruin your night too.

HEY MAN AWESOME HERE ISN'T IT AH YEAH MAN I FUCKING LOVE IT HERE THE TUNES ARE FUCKING BOSS MAN THIS DJ IS FUCKING LIT LOVE IT HEY HAVE YOU GOT A CIG I CAN BORROW MAN SORRY TO ASK BUT DON'T ASK DON'T GET THAT'S WHAT MY MOM TAUGHT ME AND SHE'S RIGHT ISN'T SHE OH YOU DON'T SMOKE OK NO WORRIES MAN SORRY TO BOTHER YOU WORTH ASKING THOUGH ISN'T IT COS IF YOU DON'T YOU'LL NEVER GET ANYWHERE IN LIFE THAT'S WHAT I THINK YEAH MAN I'VE HAD FOUR AND I'M ABSOLUTELY FUCKING FLYING PLEASE HELP ME MAN PLEASE SEND FOR HELP PLEASE DUDE PLEASE.

It's not an absurd idea that the vast majority of copulation that occurs in the world night after night is the direct result of bored, sad, lonely people bumping into other lonely, sad, bored people in nightclubs and going home to fuck their way through the malaise of modern life. That's fine. That's natural. What isn't fine, however, is the sad and sorry sight of a guy trundling round the bar, doing loop after loop, trying to scoop up anyone who'll give him a first look, let alone a second. You tend to smell this kind of guy before you see him: knock off aftershave mingled with misguided confidence and intense self-loathing.

Please, please, please try and refrain from standing next to us in the smoking area, whispering beer-soaked sweet nothings about how great everything used to be before everything went shit. Yes, it is odd that young people wear bucket hats just like you used to. Weird, right, that drugs are still popular amongst people aged 18-30, I know. Amazing, really, when you think about it, that clubs are still going, isn't it, amazing that people still like wearing silly hats and doing silly drugs isn't it? After five minutes in this guy's company you'll be longing for an alternate history where he partied a bit too hard and ended up in an early grave rather than the late night rave you're currently trying to enjoy.

Every so often, you'll come face to face with the kind of bro who thinks that this Meatpacking District mega-club is Studio 54 and that he's John Travolta rather than an IT support worker who lives with his mom and is really, really into remote controlled helicopters. He's a whirling dervish of misplaced confidence, a one man black hole of spatial awareness, a night-ruining wrecking ball in bad jeans. He pivots and pirouettes, knocking over drinks and breaking toes, painfully unaware of how awful he looks and how much he's fucking the night up for everyone. By the end of the night you'll see him sitting by the fire exit, breathless, consumed by the man he'd tried to avoid becoming. He'll croak for a sip of water. You'll step over him into the back of a taxi. You'll look back. He'll be gasping for hours. For he is the lord of the dance.

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