Mr Clubba

Back in the day when we tuned in to cop a big load of Sandy’s eyebrows on the OC, there was only one place to go for Passion Pop fueled mayhem: Claremont’s infamous Club Bay View.

Did they sell Passion Pop? Probably not, but the venue was in many ways kind of a like a big bottle of the shit: tacky, cheap and brimming the effervescence of drunken mistakes and queasy regrets. Nevertheless, you popped the top off that bitch and drank it down every Thursday night.

Johnny is pre-drinking at a Uni friends granny flat behind their parents sprawling abode. He is kitted out in his Clubba-best: pink Ralph Lauren polo (collar popped), G-Star jeans, white Etnies and generous spray of Aqua di Gio on his neck and balls. 

He perpetually looks like he has just drunk driven into some old boys hedge and his father is on the scene smoothing things out with his cheque book: a smug feeling of invincibility fueled by intoxicated self worth.

They run onto the road, yell and try to pull down streets signs on their journey up Bay View Terrace. Not unlike a pack of silverspoon-baboons rampaging through a South African village in search of the perfect banter. “Ohhh did you see Toby throw that traffic cone onto that guys lawn? Soooooo good  man”.  Oh yeh, thats a story for the ages…

Johnny is pretty drunk while standing in the line. He sways from side to side. The bouncer takes a look at his ID and considers rejecting him. Now, for a venue that could be better described as a human-waste eco-system it is fairly remarkable that a punter is too drunk to enter.

 He gets waved in and makes his way past the vomit-swamp bar floor to the gushing river of piss in the bathroom to empty his Bacardi-bladder all over the urinal wall and surrounding surfaces. One of his Christchurch mates pops out of a cubicle, “Johnnnny boy, check it out, just stuck a pint glass in the shitter and laid a big turd”. Oh how the pair laugh. Classic Clubba.

The rest of the night is characterised by Jagerbombs, sprinkler-related dance moves and aggressive bravado on the smoking terrace. 

A night at Clubba wouldn’t be complete unless you got into a blue with some other cunt and challenged them to a biffo outside of Fresh Provisions. Some Hale rugby players go off to tangle with some Guildford water polo boys. The rivalries remain perfectly intact even 2 years after school has finished. 

By all accounts, there was no winner, just a massive loss for the reputation of the PSA system.

Johnny drunkenly buys a girl a Whopper with cheese, despite her constant protests. She is a vegetarian, but more importantly she finds Johnny to be a repulsive, over-entitled walking trust-fund. Johnny’s years of PSA elitism has failed to arm him with the ability to lose gracefully. He launches the Whopper at a table of Trinity boys, “povo cunts, you could use the free food”. It’s an all out war, but truth be told,  the Trinity boys can’t afford to throw their food, so they resort to fisty-cuffs.

 A couple of Aquinas bogans sitting nearby were itching for a fight all night and a rogue group of Como High kids are totally down for it. Hungry Jacks erupts in a flurry of weak punches and threats of father-initiated court action. Jokes on everyone though, a pack of Santa Maria girls salvage the free food that has hit the floor and tables: “tonight we eat ladies!”