if looks could kill, this website would've gotten eerily quiet after tonight

Quarantine is a more social club than the Agincourt, in that you can actually hear things such as other people's voices and your own thoughts. Shame that the music is shite. They play a lot of emo. And then some more emo. And then, just when you thought there wasn't any emo left in the world, they play some more. Gah. They also play some good stuff like The Killers and the Foos which you don't hear at the Ag but one usually can't appreciate it on account of ONE'S EARS MELTING FROM ALL THE EMO. EMOVERLOAD.

On a strikingly similar note, after a couple of hours, all emo songs sound the same.

But I can deal with that. My real beef with Quarantine is the people. They're a lot more normal than the crowd at the Ag, which is not a good thing. They pay attention to things like how you look and how well you dance. I have no time for people like that. Also, Quarantine happens to be the place where my ex-boyfriend and his entire social circle hang out. It seems like every time I introduce myself to someone there, I get the same response:

"Fi? As in, Martin and Fi?"

Admittedly, at the Ag all I hear is "Fi? As in Haggis' little sister?", but for obvious reasons, that doesn't bug me as much. At the Ag, I hang out with goths and weirdos, a load of my brother's schoolfriends and, for some reason, most of the staff of Tesco (some of whom are also employed at the Ag). At Quarantine I get to walk smack bang into the middle of my very own soap opera. A wonderfully hysterical soap opera in which I, for some reason, am the villain.

Boo... Hiss...

I spent most of tonight getting glared at by a group of girls I do not know and have never spoken to. They stared at me and Liz like we were the shit off their shoes. Why? Because my ex-boyfriend dumped one of them. Was that my fault? Did I make it happen? Was I pleased that it happened. No. I'm not that harsh and I am not a boyfriend stealer. But I was there, and I was a convenient scapegoat.

I usually follow the three-strike rule for pubs and clubs. If I go there three nights and have a rubbish time then I just won't go there again (I'd like to have a one-strike rule but you really can't be choosy round here). This is the second time I've left that club feeling as valuable as the mould in the toilets. The only thing more angsty and dramatic than the emo is the people dancing to it. I'm obviously on somebody else's turf in there. No third chance. I'd rather smear myself in Pedigree Chum and go for a walk in Battersea Dog's home. There'd be less barking of dogs.