I should’ve known better than to tempt fate, or at the very least, tempt Drake and Beyonce. On a recent Friday night out, I made a declaration I would soon regret: “Clubbing is dead!”

I spoke (slurred) these words to my brother-in-law, who was in town for a flying visit. We were at my local bowling club, an establishment that ticks many boxes for a young gentleman just past his prime. There are plenty of seating options, the bar line is non-existent, and it’s walking distance to a 24-hour McDonald’s.

But for my brother-in-law, who at 24 still believes good things can happen after 1am, the halogen lights of the bowling club were not scratching the itch.

“Let’s go clubbing, man,” he suggested unironically. It was already 10pm, I was wearing new boots which hadn’t been broken in properly, and finally, most crucially, those days were over.

For people in my age bracket, going clubbing was like listening to Calvin Harris: something you often did in 2014 but hardly ever in 2022.

After two years of lockdowns, any lingering urge to club had been stubbed out. I still love to dance, but only in well-ventilated venues that play songs popular in the brief period when I was young and hot.

“Clubbing is dead,” I reminded my brother-in-law, downing my schooner and wandering off into the night. “You’re dead!” came his reply, and perhaps he was right because it would take a miracle to bring me back to life on the dance floor.

And then along came a miracle in the form of Drake and Beyonce. Earlier this week, both artists wound the clock back, dropping dance projects that drew heavily from the club scene as we once knew it.