When I was younger I would fantasise about going to university to learn how to be a professional philosopher. During my studies I would accumulate a large flock of adoring friends, but I would often shun them in favour of reading complex literary criticism in my charmingly decorated dorm room. When forced to appear in public I would wear clothes so devastatingly cutting edge that passer-bys would feel intimidated by my presence. “Brains and good taste in clothes!” they would murmur softly. “This girl is clearly a force to be reckoned with.”

You’ll be pleased to hear that I pursued this dream, but one year into my harrowing degree and I’m a little beaten down. Not just because my course title makes me sound like a pretentious twit who will never get a job, but also because I’ve let myself down in the style stakes. My time to shine has come and gone, and my tagged pictures fail adequately reflect the fashionable individual that I truly am.

I blame the social monstrosity that is clubbing. Time and time again I hide weeping under my bed, begging for a simple night at the local pub, but it never happens. Instead I allow myself to be cajoled, like a nervous deer, into something neon and bodycon. I then spend the rest of my night getting drunk so as to emotionally cope with all the awkwardly gyrating crotches and brain-dead pop music.

Just like all other social occasions, clubbing has a set uniform which everyone must conform to. I have a strong, intuitive feeling that the uniform for clubbing was concocted by a giant, sentient Barbie Doll. Only something made of plastic would insist on so much bare flesh being subjected to chilly weather conditions. Only something with an unattainable figure would concoct dresses made out of a material clingier than a jealous boyfriend. Only something that stands on its tiptoes would expect us to not only leave the house in stilettos but actually dance with them on for several hours.

My fashion instincts tell me that dressing in an overtly sexy manner is surely not the only way. After all, I like to think of fashion as an art form (or so I say when I’m accused of being shallow or materialistic), and anyone familiar with modern art knows that good art ain’t always pretty. But this didn’t stop me from following Barbie’s dress code when I started uni. After all, it’s easy to slip into lazy habits once in a while.

But things changed once I started stealing food from my fellow flatmates. Before you judge me, let us remember Eve, who stole a measly apple when she was peckish in Eden. I would say no to an apple, but can never resist chocolate biscuits and fried chicken, especially when they’re not mine. Like Eve, the consequences of my actions were dire. I went up two dress sizes.

“Never mind!” I said brightly to my flatmate. “At least this extra weight has caused my boobs to get bigger!”

My flatmate, who shares more than a passing resemblance to Sheldon from “The Big Bang Theory,” sourly replied that my boobs actually looked proportionally smaller than before, what with the rest of me being bigger. I think he was bitter because I had borrowed some of his eggs for brekky.

Dispirited, I wondered what to do next. I didn’t want to wear a tight minidress anymore, but I had never really liked such garments anyway. If you feel sexy, confident and comfortable in skimpy clothes, then go forth and skimp! I just felt that skimping didn’t fit with my undeniably fashionable wardrobe. The whole clubbing dress code is as archaic as the activity itself. How can a girl display the best of her wardrobe when she’s subjected to making herself look traditionally sexy all the time?

My weight gain forced me to think outside the box and find outfits that are both fashionable and appropriate for clubbing. Allow me to now share some of my new found wisdom with you.

Firstly, do not be afraid to avoid stilettos. Think about it: no one even sees your feet when you’re clubbing. Why suffer the pain? Think about what they could do to your feet! Let’s use Posh Spice as a cautionary tale. The intensity of her bunions (not pictured here – that’s just a random bunion) has led medical specialists to tell her she will never smile again. That’s right, she will permanently look like she needs a poo just because she didn’t respect her feet. To avoid such a tragic fate, go for sturdy black boots. They go with everything, they toughen up a pretty outfit and they don’t disintegrate when you accidentally step in a puddle of vomit.

However, I do understand that having a little extra height is important, as chatting to people’s belly buttons all night can be very lonely. Perhaps compromise with stacked wedges. I recently bought a pair of silver rubber platforms which are as kind to my feet fluffy slippers. I can’t dance in them, but then again I can’t dance no matter what I wear. To avoid nasty blisters, wear your wedges with a pair of white socks, Michael Jackson style. There’s nothing more homely than encasing your feet in sensible socks that will keep them snug all night long.

I get that dresses are pretty standard for clubbing, but do try and be inventive with your silhouette. That padded bra you’re wearing is about to take someone’s eye out, so whip it off and cut out the cups to use as shoulder pads. Big shoulders make the rest of you look smaller and enable you to emulate your favourite 80s diva. If you’re not keen on the big shoulder idea, then place a tutu under your skirt. If you spread the tutu out correctly, you should look like a delightful ballerina on a wild night out. If it bunches up at the back, then it will just look like you’ve done a big old fart that’s succeeded in parachuting up your outfit. Alternatively, ditch the tutu and wear a cape instead. This will make you look both sexy and original. If nothing else, you can run about the club all night pretending you can fly.

Reader, I can smell your doubt. I’m sorry, I’m struggling to give you sensible style advice but it’s only because clubbing is too stupid to think about all that seriously. You know what, I don’t care what you wear. Oh, I see doubt on your face. I intend to start spending my Saturday nights playing scrabble, which will finally give me a chance to show off my cardigan collection. Join me if you’re getting a little tired of dancing about like a cat being electrified. I do warn you though, I play a mean game.

What do you wear when you go clubbing? Do you have a go-to outfit that always gets you through the night? Let us know in the comments!

Written by Phoebe Eccles