So, I went clubbing over the weekend.

And I'll tell you what, it doesn't get any easier.

Once more unto the moshpit, dear friends, once more;
To fill the floor up with hipsters dead.
At work there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when opening chords ring in your ears,
Then imitate the action of Iggy Pop;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let fly with the banging of the head
Like the cannonball; let your dancing o'erwhelm
And scatter as doth a lion
O'erwhelm and scatter the meek antelope,
Quivering with the nerve of your rightful prey.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the dancefloor and bend down every head
In time with the beat. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood flows hard with metal chords unleashed!
Chords that, like trumpets at the crack of doom
Have in these parts from even 'til morn rocked
And stopped only for chucking out time:
Dishonour not your mothers; that's my job.
And those whom you call'd fathers will forget you.
Be example to men of grosser taste,
And teach them how to dance. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The metal of your pastime; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like Rollins in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Throw up the horns, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Rammstein, Turisas, and Iron Maiden!'