Obie left artless in London club scene

Wow, what a Super Bowl. One for the ages, truly. Sure, the first half was slow, and the Rams should've blown the Titans out, but what a finish....

Um, Jake?

Yes?

You don't write for Sports anymore, remember? That was last year. Then you went to London, and now you're writing for Arts.

I am?

Yup.

Crap. What am I supposed to write about in Arts? Isn't that only for English majors and Connies?

Well, write about culture, society, entertainment, media-whatever you want.

But not sports?

Nope.

Crap.

Uh, okay. Gimmie a sec, okay? Let's see... got it. One thing I can say is that I'm really glad to be back in the U S of A. I know patriotism is only slightly more popular on this campus than baby rape, but wouldn't you know that a semester in Britain made me more Proud to be an American (where at least I know I'm free...) than ever. I even listen to country music now, no joke.

No doubt, London has its strong points. Good beer, lots of theater. Helluva lot of British people. But it's not all roses, let me tell you. That beer? Four bucks a pint, if you're really lucky - and don't even talk to me about the clubs. For that matter, even the theater - yes, the same theater that is as essential to the culture of London as smog is to Los Angeles and pollution is to New Jersey - isn't without its flaws.

Sure, there are 25 or 30 shows in town. But five or six of those are Andrew Lloyd Webber. About a quarter are revivals of the "classics," which are fun for the kids and irresistible bait for the tourists, but not exactly pushing the envelope artistically. So that leaves the other half of the shows, and about half of them are mediocre or worse. Maybe five, six shows are worth seeing at any one time-nothing to scoff at, but less impressive than you might first believe.

London is a club mecca - that much I can say. You should know, however, that I am not a "club guy." For some reason, the club lifestyle isn't quite my cup of tea. Not convinced? Let me offer a quick synopsis of the typical night on the town, okay?

8 p.m.: Shower (already, most Obies are lost). Shave (even more).

8:30 p.m.: Dress. Black shirt and shiny leather shoes a necessity, shiny pants a plus.

8:45 p.m.: Start drinking cheap vodka (only $20 a bottle, what a bargain...), or not, if you're feeling uppity.

9:30 p.m.: Depart for central London.

9:51 p.m.: The bus for central London finally arrives.

10:26 p.m.: Arrive in central London. It's 40 degrees, raining, and you're wearing two thin layers of polyester, if you're lucky.

10:47 p.m.: Finally make it to the club. Let's say tonight you chose Home (God only knows why).

11:22 p.m.: Finally get into the club. The bouncer doesn't let one of your friends in, as he's not wearing a nice enough pair of pants (not shiny enough, apparently).

11:37 p.m.: Having checked your coat and waded through the line, you finally make it to the bar, where you are greeted by $7 drinks. Don't you feel stupid for refusing that cheap vodka?

12:02 a.m.: Start dancing. After getting rebuffed by several girls, you find one who will dance with you. She smiles. In the most discreet manner possible, you make a dash for the opposite-side bathroom on the next level, where you lay low for a few minutes thanking the Lord that you were born in a country which values dental hygiene.

12:55 a.m.: You're lost (yes, you can get lost in these clubs). It's been an hour since you saw your friends, at least. You're also getting the feeling that they've been playing the same two songs ever since you arrived. And you hate them both.

1:47 p.m.: Go to get you coat early and beat the rush. Of course, so did everyone else, so the basement of the club is somewhere around 90 degrees and 110 percent humidity.

2:12 a.m.: After some time out in the wonderful (e.g., crappy) London early-morning, your friends come stumbling out. If you're feeling rich, you pay about $20 each for a cab home. If not, you walk a mile or so to the nearest night bus stop, and wait another 45 minutes for the bus.

3 a.m.-4:15 a.m.: Arrive home. If you're smart, you shower again to remove the accumulated stench of London, sweat and CK1 from your body.

12:13 p.m.: Wake up. Try to imagine the most beautiful, clear-headed summer morning to which you've ever awoken. Now imagine a morning that is in all ways opposite-that is this morning.

Not to rag on the club lifestyle or anything.

Now, some of you might argue that there is more to London than the club scene, or theater or even beer. True enough. There's also football -real football, not American football, and no, it's not soccer, it's football.

Careful, Jake. This sounds like sports...

Only partially. Football is as ingrained in British life as the right to drive a big, obnoxious car while talking on a cell phone is in American life. Can't talk about Britain without talking about football.

Point taken. Nice analogy, by the way.

The car? I thought it was a little half-baked, but it was the best I could come up with.

No, it's really very nice.

Really?

Really.

Well, thanks. Back to football, though. The intensity of the British obsession with football is really quite remarkable. Almost everyone I knew followed a team, and many followed both League and European action avidly. Not just the guys, either...

Bit of a problem, Jake.

What's that?

Well, in addition to the fact that you ARE writing about sports, it's boring. I think you've squeezed just about all you can out of this column.

Sure about that? The section's pretty loose this week, we could use all the words we can get...

Positive.

All right then, but I haven't even talked about my favorite British TV shows, and how awful the music is, much less taken the easiest cheap shot of all...

British food?

Right.

Look, I'd tell you to quite while you're ahead, but this has been an uphill battle from the start. Finish with some snappy little British saying, and be done with it. Right then. Cheers, mates.