A funny thing happened last night, I unexpectantly ended up at 3am, waiting in the cab line in Surfers Paradise, chowing down on a chicken kebab. I guess that’s not the funny thing. Funnier would be seeing me, pickled at 1am dancing like a lunatic to Footloose at the Avenue. Funnier still, we used to scoff at the oldies dancing to Kenny Loggins at the Avenue some 15 years ago.

The night was meant to entail dinner for a friend who is leaving for an open-ended overseas trip. Dinner was lovely and we were done by about 9pm. Everyone was scattering and I was about to call a cab when two of the girls suggested that I “Come out with us to Melbas”. Well since you’ve got a shotgun to my head, sure, why not?

K & S, the girls I went with, are actually around my age, but childless thus far, and therefore, have got way more of a handle on the nightclub situation than I. For one, they didn’t wear Havaianas and a long flowing hippy dress. They were perhaps, shall we say, more suitably attired wearing high heels that could take your eye out, and skinny jeans. The fact that I trailed along like Demis Roussos in a kaftan, bless, didn’t seem to bother them. I was scared the bouncers would pull a “Not in those shoes lady” on me, but as we all know, that rule only applies to guys. Double Standard City

A lot of changes seem to have taken place since I was a nightclub regular. For one, the stripper pole appears to taken “pole” position on most dance floors. Further to this, every female there, will have at least one go at attempting the fireman slide down this pole. Myself included. Told you I was pissed. There were girls there who were getting rather over enthused and not scared to get their barely covered arses, wrapped seductively around the pole. Look at moi Kimmy, look at moi.

Another thing that has changed: My stamina. I was particularly impressed that I knew nearly every song. Thankfully there was zero Doof Doof music and of course, knowing all the songs, we just HAD to dance to each and everyone. One thing I wasn’t counting on, the massive stitch I acquired within about 10 minutes. Physically unfit? You betcha.

The handbag dance is a stayer however. You know the dance all women do regardless of age and generation. It entails all the handbags being piled in the middle if the dance floor and all the owners hailing them by dancing around them like it’s an open campfire.

It appears the game hasn\'t changed in the world of Nightclubbing, just the players.

Also unchanged is the ritual of getting home from a night out. A kebab can still be secured, there are still multiple vomit patches to avoid, and the cab line is longer than Tiger Woods’ phone bill.

I got home, eventually, but not before being chatted up by a 24 year old boy here for the Surf Titles. Whilst flattering, I think he was giving me the pissed pity chat up. And of course, accompanied by a six foot tall glamazon and gorgeous brunette, we had our fair share of guys breaking into our dance space. But happily, this unexpected night out, was enjoyable because we weren’t looking for anything from it, just a shimmy and a drink. And holy hell, just quietly, judging by todays long recovery, I may have gone a little overboard on both fronts.