Fight Club 35

A - Club 35, Cairo B - Die Kleine Rosa Katze Disco Tech, Düsseldorf

Despite my reservations, I casually started making my way through the neon pink watering-hole of my demise when something rather odd came to my attention. 90% of the males were adorned in Ralph Lauren button downs and massive Hermés belts. Ginormous H’s hung proudly over their cocks as if to contemptuously announce: “Yes you cunt, I have in fact purchased a $450  item of clothing to essentially hold my trousers up. LOVE ME!” I looked down at my attire. I was wearing a baby blue band t-shirt from an obscure Brighton-based electro-collective called Help She Can’t Swim, complete with pink flowers, a shabby grey cardigan which I had purchased from a thrift store in East London and very, VERY skinny jeans. Now, bare in mind that nowadays skinny jeans are as common as the infestation of Cairo street cats that roam our city, but back then I hadn’t seen them on anyone here. So I must of stuck out like a sore thumb as I continued to make my way through the  cluster-fuck of cloned males, catching stares as if I was a black man who had causally paraded into a Grand Dragon, white supremacist, Klu Klux Klan assembly. I kept hearing this word ‘khawal’. “What does ‘khawal’mean?”,  I thought to myself. “Perhaps it’s Arabic for stylish?” I looked down at my ensemble. “Yes, that must be what it means, stylish!” Another thought that was circulating through my brain box was “Surely those buckles would dig into their stomachs when they sit down? That can’t be comfortable. What is the need for such massive belt buckle?’” I tried not to dwell too much and continued on with my night.

That's money, bitch!

I was introduced to a mixed group at one of the larger tables in the club. One particular girl caught my attention. Big green eyes, flowing brown hair. Definitely a beauty. I lent over to one of the guys on the table and casually inquired as to who she was. He smiled and said, “She’s taken man.” The night dragged on as I kept hearing the same recycled David Guetta mixes and Arabic tracks, corrupting my ear drums. I zoned out whilst trying to analyse as to  why everyone was eating copious amounts of sushi and drinking profuse amounts of whisky simultaneously. Was that normal behavior? Was this just Egyptian etiquette? I was starting to get bored and complacent so I decided to go have a chat with the beautiful girl I had noticed earlier. Now, what I had yet to learn was the full extent and scale of male egos in Cairiene society: these guys literally had testosterone dripping out out of their eye balls. I casually started talking to the girl, being as charming as I can. My accent seemed to help and I was starting to get somewhere – she’s starts to laugh at my observations and jokes. I think to myself, “This is going well,” so I suggest we take a shot together. I wander off to find a waiter. When I returned, a few minutes later, this is what unfolded…

Before I could even blink, I found myself up against the wall with a some guy’s hands around my neck, accused of coming on to the aforementioned  green-eyed beauty. It quickly occurred to me that he must be the girl’s Neanderthal of a boyfriend. He was making a curious, loud, snorting noise and shouting Arabic insults at me which I was yet to understand. So naturally, I start to laugh. Then, of course,  the beating began. He managed to get in a couple of hefty punches to my face before the bouncers interjected and we were both outside. Time seemed to have sped up and I found myself face-up on the pavement outside the First Mall, with a big shiny H flying towards my torso. Needless to say it was a harrowing experience.  The pain didn’t really stop as he continued to whip me with his shiny Hermes belt whilst shouting things like “maluush zobr,” which I later found out to meant that I didn’t have a penis, which is quite saddening because I thought I did… And, of course, “khawal,” which I still presumed to mean stylish at the time. The whole painful debacle eventually ended.