Elephant

Possibly the most celebrated perk of living in Germany is the lower drinking age. Though alcohol is definitely a Bad Thing and there's nothing big or clever about watching somebody pee in the middle of the street, it is a law I've chosen to sieze with both hands. I'm not yet 18 but I already know what bars I'd like to start and end the night with, what drinks I can and can't handle and which people I'd like to disassociate myself with when I go out like the plague, thank you very much.

The same applies to clubbing. When I moonwalk my way into a club, I moonwalk with an objective, open-minded sort of view as to how the night might turn out; even if the stench of sweat and booze on people's breaths is enough to induce a coma, I do not take offence to this. It is a club, after all, and who ever said these were places of sophistication and class? Even the vomit my nice suede heel just been submerged in - that's just part of the package, right? Light-hearted fun was never meant to be glamorous, every bona fide metropolitan clubber knows that.

But with promises of Elephant being "soooo f-cking awesome!!!", I forgot about the free-spirited views and laidback approach to club expecations. Having just enjoyed a few hours in Ringlok, where drinks are reasonably priced, the music appeals from everyone to the metal rocker's to the pop princess' with there being enough elbow-room to occasionally do the "windmill", I raised my hopes considerably and expected a somewhat classier affair.

Well, classy affairs require a small fortune, apparently! A burly, gruff bouncer greets us at the door, snarling at us in the way German bouncers do, and we're told we've gotta pay 10 euros for the privilege. "10 euros?!" I sneered at Amaury. "This had better be worth it". He laughed reassuringly, in the way German
 friends do when they think they're on to a winner with clubs in terms of fit birds and quality booze. Teetering on heels that I hadn't quite gotten used to, we stumbled up the stairs to find ourselves in the 2012 Moulin Rouge.

The lighting is dim, only illuminated by the neon colours of the bar and lights; in contrast to the warehouse form of Ringlok, the walls are adorned with funky contemporary art pieces and the windows burst with colour (not unlike a church, but the two are in no way comparable aside from that). And wonderfully, there is no smell of sweat and no vomit on my shoes!

As I was in bloke company, I had no choice but to begrudgingly "check out the talent" with them. "Talent" is apparently populous here - women who would not look out of place on a cover of Vogue Italia sprawl on the plush sofas, their limbs tanned and toned, rouched lips pursed, looking blase and irritatingly beautiful. As you do when you're people watching (and trying not to stare), I tried to delve deeper beneath the porcelain skin - what does she do? Is she a model/waitress? Model/student maybe? I would never know, but I was starting to consider the effects a nose job would do for my overall "look", and maybe I could join the demographic of "hopelessly wonderful-looking people" dominating the club. Sadly, this is somewhat optimistic if you are anything like me, and you have only the sexual prowess of a loaf of bread...

Unfortunately, the men and their "talent" failed to parralel the success of the women. Ladies, if you're looking for some hot eye-candy when you're out, don't get your best bodycon on for hitting this place. Though Elephant is crawling with female foxes (Did I just say that?), the only eye-candy you can expect to find has a pension, and hasn't seen their belt buckle since 1997. Sadly, for every two women is one balding man in an Armani suit with Hush Puppies, and this unlikely pairing only indicates one conclusion, one I thought only existed in Katie Price novels. Sugar daddies.

As a Hip Young Thing, this fails to impress me. The music isn't too bad; there is no instantly recognizable pop hits that emits the screams of young women and dragging the guys onto dance floors. Some DJ Tiesto style disco tunes blare and that's enough for a little shuffle, but nothing to take "I'M HAVING SUCH A GOOD TIME!" pictures over. The fact the club is filled with young women clinging desperately to old men who resemble children in sweet shops is downright cringe-worthy viewing, and that's not just me speaking as a mere teenager who is yet to see "the horrors of the real world". An ideal up-for-it crowd is part of the fun; they're the ones that help to create the vibrant atmosphere you'd expect from a club in a city like Bielefeld.

I leave you on this note - if I were a drink, I'd be a lukewarm Stella Artois; trustworthy, within everyone's drinking ability and not strong enough to give everyone the boke the next morning. If Elephant were a drink, it'd be a Cosmopolitan; expensive, glamorous looking but may cause a bitter taste to settle in your mouth afterwards. So why the hell did you spend so much money for what looked so glamorous, but failed so spectacularly to impress?!

And that is why Nelly the Elephant is the only elephant there is room for in my heart.