Tuesday, March 25, 2003
Dancin' In The City
Last year, I hung up the Dancin' Shoes, and declared my late-night to early-afternoon clubbing days well and truly over. I'd emerged, teary-eyed and aching, from the sort-of-last-ever Trade, and it just seemed an appropriate time to stop.
I think it's called Growing-Up. I wasn't getting any younger, and it wasn't as though I'd missed out at what clubland had to offer me in the past. Within weeks of arrival in early 80s HiNRG London, I'd wangled my place on the Heaven guest list. I'd gone on the pull at the notorious Subway in Leicester Square. I'd been a Smiths-loving indie-kid at the Bell, an Armani-clad tosser at the Kensington Roof Gardens, and a waste of space at both of them. Asylum, Troll, Queer Nation, Ciao Baby, Daisy Chain, DTPM, Love Muscle. Even G.A.Y when I thought no-one was watching. I’d done them all, marked each one off on my queer dance card, before finally staking out a mammoth seven-year Class-A-fuelled residency on the dance floor at Turnmills (top right-hand corner, just past the bridge, can't fail to spot me).
So far I haven't really missed it. In fact, Sundays have now become a revelation to me. Reading the broadsheets with a clear head over freshly-brewed coffee and warm croissants. Going out for Sunday lunch with friends at the gastro-pub round the corner. Taking in an exhibition, or an early-evening concert. Or just a nice Boozy Sunday down the pub with a bunch of mates.
I've no great desire to restart regular, or even every-now-and-again, clubbing. Besides, with all the best places currently South of the River, it's all far too much trouble for a North London boy like me. Witches can't cross running water. Neither can I.
Which is the whole point of this post. Kind of. Trade honcho, Laurence Malice, is slowly releasing details of the launch of his brand-new super-club, Egg. If it was in Brixton, or Vauxhall, or even London Bridge, I'd be able to resist its late-night scrambled charms. Simple. No problemo, matey. Piece of (disco) cake.
But oh no, it is seven-and-a-half minutes' walk from my front door. I know. I timed every single one of 'em.
So I fear my clubbing days may not yet quite be over. My (local) disco needs me, you see. So, if you spot a gurning, grinning, gyrating geriatric making a tit of himself out there on the dancefloor, smile kindly and say hello to me.
And no, you are not all coming back to mine afterwards.