I nearly forgot that Clementine's existed! Sorry, Is that a terrible thing for me to say?

Do any of you visit this venue on any kind of regular basis? I used to go every week with the same group of friends, but that was coming on for four years ago now. We were freshers and we didn't know any better. It was a 15-minute walk from our university halls to St Clement's, and we could never bring ourselves to go any further than that.

It was as if an invisible force field existed at Magdalen Bridge that forbade us to go into town, but instead forced us back down the stairs and on to Clementine's claustrophobic dance floor.

I'll start with a few Clementine's experiences that have burned themselves into my memory. It was here that an emotionally unstable girl that I was seeing at the time attempted to punch a close female friend of mine just for talking to me. Also in Clementine's my friend was violently ill in the toilet and a little bit of puke strayed away from the bowl. The 'Freshen-up' guy in the toilet then proceeded to scream at us for this heinous crime, as though we had just been in line to meet the Queen and rather than shake her hand we had flashed her instead, or something as equally inappropriate.

If at this point you're unfamiliar with the concept of a 'Freshen-up' man, they are the keepers of the club toilets. They sit on the sink, hawking their wares such as lollipops, single cigarettes, after-shave and chewing gum (all at around a 5,000 per cent mark up on actual market value). They also wait until you wash your hands, and rather than let you dry your hands under the dryer, they shove a measly piece of toilet paper into your hands to dry yourself off. Finally, they demand £2 for this service - what entrepreneurs!

All of this is done while they shout "No splash, no gash!", "No spray, no lay!" and the pretty little ditty "Freshen up for the punani!" - witticisms surely worthy of Oscar Wilde himself.

But as I was saying, the Clementine's Freshen-up guy went mental! It's my opinion that if you work in the toilet of a club where people are getting drunk, it is an inevitability that people are going to vomit - and one that you should accept. This guy reacted as though we had walked into his office, bold as brass, pulled our trousers down and soiled in the top drawer of his desk.

It was these two nights that taught me two valuable lessons. 1) Steer clear of girls with psychotic tendencies: ignore the fact that they are usually hot - unless you would like your bunny boiled. 2) Freshen-up men are nothing more than street beggars in nice clothes, and should be ignored - note that this will make them even more aggressive, but it's better not to enter into conversations with them (mark my words, they will steal your wallet and spend the money on books of bad one-liners).

It is this unshakeable association that I have formed between Clementine's, psychos and learning harsh lessons in life, that makes me not want to come here. Saturday night didn't do much to change my mind. All the while I was there I couldn't get rid of the sense of impending doom - the Sword of Damocles indeed hung above my head.

The music was naff, the temperature high and the drinks not as cheap as they used to be. But a little bird tells me that they might be closing for the summer anyway, to reopen in September ready for another wave of freshers. They will come, get drunk, learn their lessons and move on to bigger and better clubs. I wonder for how long this cycle will continue.