10 Things I Hate About Clubbing in Toronto

Clubbing in Toronto is approachable, varied, and super fun. But in a few ways that are impossible to ignore, it can also be awful and make me want to die. Sure, most of my gripes with nightlife in this city are the direct result of its seemingly endless winter. But vomit-covered streetcars, Yorkville douchebags, toque hair, and endless comparisons to Montreal can't be relieved of the blame either. Here are ten things I hate about clubbing in Toronto.

Coat check is a necessary menace, but in Toronto it's a scourge. Let's say it's -40 degrees outside and I'm cruising up to The Hoxton. I cabbed here, but I still need two jackets to get from the car to the door. There's a line stretching as long as the one Moses led from Egypt through the desert. "Is this general admission?" I ask a bouncer. "No, it's coat check," he replies. After half an hour of listening to all the drunk, asinine conversations around me, I get to the counter and have to pay for each jacket, which will be stuffed between dirty coats and then most likely lost. I am reminded why I hate winter.

Toronto nightclubs attract barely legal teens from nearby Ontario universities like glowing LED lightning rods. Kids from U of T, Ryerson, Western, Guelph, McMaster, and countless others have made it their favorite pastime to cover Bloor Street in their vomit. Hey guys, guess what? You don't get extra credit for passing out in Pizza Pizza, so stop acting like it.

Drake, stop trying to make "The Six" happen. Nicknaming our city a random number is the reason the acronym "smh" was invented. If one more DJ says "coming back to the 6ix to play a show" on Instagram, I'm going to lose it.

"Look good or die trying" has never been so literal a saying as it is in Toronto. Getting ready for the club is a perpetual catch-22: do I want matted hat hair, or do I want my cerebellum to literally freeze and have to be removed on account of frostbite? Then when I finally get inside, I have to awkwardly hold my toque while dancing? Nothing screams Toronto like looking out onto the dancefloor and seeing a sea of neon beanies waving like flags of desperation in the air. This is to say nothing of those who opt for a harf.

It doesn't matter if you're a guy from Mississauga or a girl from North York—when I wake up the morning after a night out, hungover and confused, getting the hell home is the only thought on my mind. In this city, it's sadly it's never that easy. My club clothes are embarrassingly inappropriate, there's a snowpocalypse outside, and the bus is like, "You know what? I'm not going to run on this route today." Have you ever been trapped playing Uno with your one-night-stand while you wait for the snow to melt? Because I have.

Toronto is the resting bitch face capital of Canada, maybe even all of North America. The well-contoured faces of local female clubbers don't scream approachability, and friendliness doesn't come complimentary with a purchase of Hunter boots or a Canada Goose down trench. Yet despite what their ombre hairstyles made them believe, neither does originality. So really, there's no loss here.

When clubbing in Toronto, there are several distinct species of men who will attempt to chat you up:

A. The ones who snootily tell you they're in an artist collective—Art Department, Carlo Lio and Richie Hawtin are their techno holy trinity.

B. The "too-into-The-Weeknd" #sadboys—they spend their entire lives in anticipation of that moment when Drake is brought out on stage.

C. The ones who want to take you to a "really cool bar" …in the Distillery District. Head's up: they probably work in accounting.

I loathe Yorkville. It's bad enough that it exists, but when a 32-year-old advertising executive decides to make the trek from Hunters Landing to CODA to "score some fucking pussy, eh," the whole city loses. The only redemption we have as a human race is knowing that the Ferrari they illegally parked will soon be so corroded from deicing salt that they'll be crying in their accountant's office come June.

If I had a nickel for every time I heard someone swear that clubbing is sooo much better in Montreal, I'd have enough dough to fly there and go to Tokyo Thursdays myself. Complaining is integral to a Torontonian's lifeblood. But perhaps it's best to take it all with a grain of salt and be grateful that you're not from Yellowknife. Or maybe go post a super constructive Facebook comment about it.

The TTC is a fitting end to an all-around terrible night. You have no idea what bad transit is until you've been stuck on a humid Toronto tram with vomit sloshing from end to end, stalling behind a Honda Accord that swerved onto the tracks and got stuck. They don't call it the "Vomit Comet" for nothing.

More From This Series:
10 Things I Hate About Clubbing in New York City
10 Things I Hate About Clubbing in London

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