impatient, obnoxious, petty, argumentative, and obsessed over meaningless details
I have been thinking about the concept of exclusivity when it comes to club membership in Ireland. This is following where the streets have no name.
dictionary.reference.com defines exclusivity as some of the following:
incompatible
shutting out all others from a part or share
noting that in which no others have a share
disposed to resist the admission of outsiders to association, intimacy, etc.: an exclusive circle of intimate friends.
admitting only members of a socially restricted or very carefully selected group: an exclusive club.
Catering to a wealthy clientele; expensive: exclusive shops.
Ok, hands up! I am currently a member of an “exclusive gym”. The “exclusivity” like most things comes with expense. I paid over the odds to join. I was primarily motivated by the desire to work out in a bright, clean and spacious environment. My rationale for joining was that I hoped this place would be free from many of the meat head bouncer types I saw in the pay-monthly gyms in town. I had also seen enough briefs and red pubes and aldi bags to last me a lifetime. I was sick of seeing guys inspecting themselves like an Adonis a few inches from the mirror after lifting some lead.
These types do not really exist in the “exclusive world”; the more upmarket clientele are a bit weirder. The Range Rogers and guts on show in the new place are tributes to Celtic tiger excess, as is the lack of perspiration. There are plenty of people who are used to money and have good manners and generally know what they are doing but you also have the young rugby school types with highlights in their hair who appear to have taken rapid weight gainer which went straight to their arms so that they resemble pop-eye. There are the 6 foot something, metro-sexual, brown-as-a-berry sunbed types who don’t do any real exercise and just pose around and perv at the women and make them feel uncomfortable. You have the weird nouveux-riche – the men being far more obvious than the women. The guys are there to assert that they have arrived and the girls go to get in shape. It appears the guys are paranoid about fitting in and are don’t take criticism well. I do manage to go a few times a week and during the summer people have cleared out altogether.
On nite-clubs; the bitching on the facebook article I referenced above keeps on going. Some got so bent out of shape about not being “beautiful people” that they argue publicly with strangers using their own names for all to see. I think it is amazing and disgusting at the same time.
It seems the more aspirational you are the easier it is for you to accept you don’t belong and to fly off the handle when confronted with your worst fear.
On “private” members clubs:
Set in one of the most prestigious addresses in Dublin, 41 St Stephen’s Green, Residence has become the most exclusive venue in town.
Our members include actors, actresses and businessmen and we wanted to do something a bit different for them,” says Christian.
“We had the Tanaiste, Mary Coughlan in on Tuesday night, she was in Bang for dinner so I took her across for a drink and she loved the place,” added Simon.
The aforementioned ‘It Boy’, gossip columnist Gavin Lambe Murphy, was not made to feel so welcome earlier on this week. He was politely asked to leave following the departure of his dining companion, the only Residence member in his group.
My friend sometimes goes to Residence. He says it is actually OK but one time he took exception to something that was said. A guy who had too much to drink was looking all over for his jacket which he had misplaced. When he was shown a few jackets by another member of my friends group he singled one out and said “I would never ever wear something like that”.
In 2006 I got a gift of a years membership of a different private members club in Dublin. It was not bad and an option of somewhere else to go on a night out. I got a slagging from a lot of people about it and they appeared to like it in spite of their preconceptions. My membership ran out and I didn’t want to renew it. I always felt too young in there, mostly to do with the 40th birthday parties they held on a weekly basis with awkward outsiders brought in en-masse diluting the air of “exclusivity”. Bono’s assistants 30th bash was there. Bono and the guy who designed the claw (Gavin Friday) and Guggi were all there. Even Mrs Bono (Ali Hewson) felt overwhelmed and I heard her on the stairs getting re-assurance from Bono; “noooooo – they loved you”.
I wrote about the place recently and noted that some guys from Cork were behaving very strangely on their trip to the Capital. Someone else I know from Cork was brought there before by a Dubliner who was keen to impress. In her inimitable way she described the place with doorbell and the statues on door as “complete fucking bullshit”.
My friend sent me some new material, I dont think I missed the point by too much. He said:
Ok, you missed the point on this one.
First, the main point was, the guy was completely hammered and I would be surprised if he knew his name. But, in a dark, crowded room, squinting as the jackets flew by his face, he managed to collect his thoughts enough to realize that the jacket in question was so distasteful to him that he wanted to make it clear that he’d never wear something like that. I think that pretty much sums up the clientele in an exclusive club — they don’t mind shitting themselves, but heaven forbid they are accused of owning a north face jacket.
Second, the jacket was mine!