Now clubbing lets the gimmicks roll

Actually, being I've only been the right side of 18 for a year, I remember the days when "clubbing" was akin to queuing in the rain for 45 minutes, being shouted at by a sadistic bouncer for pretending to have "forgotten" your ID, tramping barefoot along the pavement carrying your shoes and finding comfort at the bottom of a bag of chips.

Then someone's dad came to pick you up and made disapproving noises as you fell asleep on each others' shoulders during the drive home.

The only talent you were commended for was not ending up as the Bacardi Breezer-touting be-miniskirted heap, crying on the toilet floor over a boyfriend's unsavoury antics with your best friend.

Nobody expected you to showcase any kind of skill. Nobody expected you to do the whole thing on wheels.

Fast forward 12 months, a move to London, and in one very cold trek to the freight yard off King's Cross.

I'm wearing roller skates in a bar, trying to establish just where the fine line lies between Dutch courage and possibly having to spend the rest of my student years wearing a neck brace in meetings with Claims Direct.

In the bizarrely inverted philosophy of the London clubbing world, it seems no sooner have you actually got old enough to venture past the sacred velvet ropes, than they're trying to pretend you're 12 again.

We're all required to suck lollipops and smile coyly as we whiz past the object of our desire and go careering headlong into a wall.

But roller disco is just the thin edge of the gimmick wedge.

Now, it seems, every night out is expected to include at least one of the following: a burlesque cabaret, a tea party, a raffle, a group of hen party-alikes wearing Lycra shorts and medallions with deadpan nonchalance, a mini-casino, a knitting corner, a brief appearance from either Peaches or Pixie Geldof, a medieval jousting competition, or all of the above.

I rather think Ken Livingstone decided socialising and romancing for the under-30s was becoming too easy (the binge-drinking epidemic rife as it is), and decided to plonk as many obstacles in our way as tax money would allow.

Because, let me tell you this, you can't pull at a roller disco, other than a muscle.

Oh, the idea is lovely enough '“ girl sees boy, girl likes boy, girl skates past boy, expertly mis-times a turn and stumbles sweetly into his arms.

Then a long and beautiful romance begins, possibly culminating in a wedding with roller skating bridesmaids and music from Starlight Express.

The reality is as follows: Girl sees boy, girl likes boy, boy does not like girl because an hour and a half of skating has turned her into a shiny, dripping tomato, hair fluffy and stuck to her face with sweat as she complains about the impact of roller boots on her bunions.

Girl mis-times a turn, flies through the air with the grace of a hippo, lands in a heap on boy's chest before wheeling over his hand/foot/face.

Wherein begins a long and not-very-beautiful trip to A&E, possibly culminating in a lawsuit.

In keeping with the return to primary school politics, you also have to contend with the show-offs, who bring their own skates with flashing wheels and do pirouettes while the rest of us fight to stay upright.

I'll admit I had entertained hopes of being rather good at skating. Yes, the last time I donned four-wheel skates they were those plastic Fisher Price jobbies which extended as your feet grew.

But heck, I am (was) a dancer. I have balance, I have poise'¦ I had several vodka cranberries and now I have bruises.

Next week, who knows'¦ go-kart clubbing? Sky-diving clubbing?

Perhaps we shall reach a point where all opportunity for gimmick has been exhausted and it will become novel to sit in a pub and have a beer.

Perhaps I'll start that trend. Once I've found some plasters for my wounds, that is.