Two large men in front of us in the line are greying on the sides of their heads.

They are excited.

“You know, I’m annoyed I decided against the Hawaiian shirt,” I chirp up, starting a conversation. “I started putting one on, but I just thought with these grey clouds...”

“All the more reason to wear one!” exclaims the one on the left with the almost-mullet. He is wearing a garish tiki shirt. “Plus, we’re celebrating.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s dads’ night out!” the other one smirks. Matching shirts. His head looks a bit like a rockmelon.

“Dads’ night out? At Club Retro?”

“You know it. We googled the best clubs for old people, and this was the first result!”

A club for old people? We were here for a 21st birthday kick-ons...

A bunch of lads strut past our queue.

“Oi Jimmy, this is where you should go if you wanna pick up MILFs!” one shouts. They cackle.

What is this place?

I go and join the rest of our party at the back of the queue. We scan QR codes, wonder whether we’ll be asked to wear masks, grimace and pay the compulsory $20 fee for entry after 8:30pm (trust me, it isn’t worth it). Finally, we heave up the stairs.

We’re in—but also completely sober. And no matter how many suspiciously sticky shot glasses of tequila you throw back, an uninebriated first impression of Club Retro is something you never really shake.

There’s a strange mixture of characters on the floor at 10:45pm: hens’ parties, divorcees, men with goatee-beards half a dozen inches long, a healthy sprinkling of the sort of people that shout at each other on trams, extras from The Sopranos, that sort of thing.

The sound system is so deafening that my ears begin to ring. ‘Come on Eileen’ plays, and then five minutes later, plays again. I can feel the too-ra-loo-rye-ay in my ribcage.

A smoke machine occasionally splutters and coughs into action to remind everyone it’s there and smells weird.

It is impossible to shake a sense of impending doom.

I try to dance, but half our party’s hearts aren’t in it. Someone bumps me. I turn around—and suddenly my vision is eclipsed by someone’s aunt grinding on Sopranos Extra #7. She seems very enthusiastic. He grunts in appreciation. I turn to my left: two tram-creatures eating each other’s necks. I quickly turn to the right: a woman in her late 50’s starts making eyes at me! She has the aura of a pool lifeguard who would scold you for being on the wrong side of a lane rope. I turn back to my friends. They aren’t dancing so much as rhythmically bending their knees.

I need more to drink. Maybe that will help with the Fear this Hieronymus Bosch scene is presenting. I order a drink for my friend and I, and begin my odyssey back to the other side of the dance floor.

I duck out of the way as a cyclops monster makes a beeline for the toilet. The music accelerates. Other people’s sweat begins to soak my shirt. I stumble through, tossed about as if caught in a breaking surf wave. I push up for air, gasping a quick breath before being pushed back below the surface again. It engulfs me. Eyes and teeth gleam in the dark, illuminated green by the lasers rhythmically piercing the room. I duck just in time as a bat swoops overhead. It screeches. I think I screech back. My heartbeat is increasing, and my breathing is pained. ‘Sweet Dreams’ by Eurythmics pulses through my arteries. A primary-school-librarian type flounders against me, before streaming back somewhere else.

Nearly there. If the ancient Polynesians were able to navigate the vastness of the Pacific Ocean using only the stars, I can find my way through this scrum. Due west, and then a little north with the current. Trust in the techniques.

The sea pushes me back to the group, and I stagger out dripping. I hand the drink to my friend, and he thanks me.

“No worries.”

I turn back to survey the environment. It remains apocalyptic—and it is still filling up. We will never make it out of here alive.

This is the way the world ends.
This is the way the world ends.
This is the way the world ends.

Not with a bang—but with Cyndi Lauper.