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» Nightclubs
The Slimelight
Back in the 80s, a bunch of us left the suburbs and went up to London one saturday night. One or two of us had heard about this place in Islington. We ended up at a dark doorway at the end of a blind side street behind Angel tube around 3 or 4 in the morning. Had to get a member to sign you in. Somehow we blagged it. I didn't remember much except dry ice and punks and goths and bikers and hippies and their music were everywhere. And some AMAZING goth girl threatening to cut my mate's bollocks off with a rusty razor. The best bit? It was a legit club that stayed open until the tubes started at 7am. No alcohol sold, so you took yer own. £6 for non-members, £4 for member. A real bargain at the time.
A few weeks later I was at a loose end one Saturday night owing to my recent discovery that all my friends apparently hated my guts and wanted me to die.
I decided to go back to this club 40 miles away in North London. I worked in town so the trains were paid for. Stop at the ATM on the way to the station, and off I go. Except the Nationwide ATM was out or order. So were the other 3 in Staines that evening. Oh well, I can sort it in London. Get on the train.
Could I find a single working ATM between Waterloo and Angel? Could I buggery! I ended up getting there at 1 in the morning, all but skint, and walked straight through the door and into the club without paying.
I headed up these wide, deep stairs to the first floor. Pulsing music got louder. My 17 year old brain is being assaulted.
Through another door, and it got proper noisy. The place looked like a hastily vacated warehouse. Bits of furniture and benching and stuff. Chicken wire walls. A tyre swing. Televisions bolted all around showing the same movies and art films. Neon tubes here and there. It was like a massive squat. A dancefloor was over to the right, all dry ice and coloured lights and bass. Beyond that, somewhere you could buy a coffee and amazing banana and honey sandwiches.
The people were off the scale. Every subculture was there. Mostly Goth, but sexy goth and not miserable goth. Fuck me the women were outrageous, so were some of the blokes. There was a big fetish element to the look, because this was before the BDSM 'scene' got out of the Mansions and into the clubs. More than a few off duty strippers used to turn up for a boogie.
The Look was young, pervy and tripping, and makeup for everybody. Boots and hair were spiky. Boys and girls all got dressed up.
Mixed in were a lot of various 'alternative' types. Bikers, hippies, even a few skinheads occasionally. The music was a whole blend of uber-cool shit. Bags of attitude all the way.
I found a corner and sat down and rolled a little joint and wondered what to do for the rest of the night.
I didn't wait long. Two girls, in crushed velvet and crimped hair finery, came over and said hello, are you by yourself? There's a bunch of us, why don't you come over? So I did and met all these people and we hung out all night and went back to waterloo together the next morning to get the train home.
I was a motorbike courier mon-fri, so the mohican had to go under a helmet, and my black nail varnish would steadily chip off through the week. I was known as 'the Black Fingernail'. Every day, I would wear the same shit that I'd taken off the night before.
The following Saturday, I did my hair, did my makeup, and headed back to town to meet up with my new mates.
That was my 7 day week for the next few years.
Work, club, sleep sunday, repeat.
I probably went almost every weekend for the next 3 years. We had mad, crazy times. We took good drugs. I discovered how to dance. There was love, intrigue, drama all mixed up with the speed and the acid and the music. Not to mention the whole pretentious goth thing! Wahay! I loved all that! "If a thing's worth doing, it's worth overdoing" was our creed.
In all the years of going, I never saw any real trouble there. I hardly saw any bouncers, either. No cops, ever.
A few times I used to wander outside at 4.30 or so, daybreak and I've been sweating on the dance floor for hours tripping on the lights, the smoke, the clothes and bodies.
I'd step out the door and it felt like diving into a pool. Looking straight up at the building site cranes towering up from the other side of the small side street we are on, I watch them wave and ripple gently. Quick cup of tea and a giggle, and it's back inside for more. Makeup and hair would of course stay perfect throughout the night's gyrations.
The club would turn the fire alarm on for a few minutes at 7.30am to wake up the sleepers and we'd all shamble off to the tube, and hang out at waterloo for a few hours drinking tea and eating attrocious bacon sandwiches from casey jones while the LSD just tailed off nicely......
The scene of my hedonistic youth climaxed with meeting my future wife. (We were together 20 years this march) After a year or so, we slowly started not going so often, and it tailed off as these thing do.
We didn't completely stop going for years and years. New Years Eves were the final times we went. My 1986 membership card always getting us in, even without the leathers or the makeup.
For us, it was always the best club. Anywhere else we went was just so-so. Camden Palace, Elec.Ballroom, KitKat, yeah so what. This place was cheap and all-night and fucking great. There was nothing like it. When Acid House first hit, we'd get these guys in dayglo smiley gear arrivng cos their clubs closed at 4am!
All were welcome. That was probably the best of it.
Length? As far as I know, it's still going.
(Thu 9th Apr 2009, 3:16, More)
The Slimelight
Back in the 80s, a bunch of us left the suburbs and went up to London one saturday night. One or two of us had heard about this place in Islington. We ended up at a dark doorway at the end of a blind side street behind Angel tube around 3 or 4 in the morning. Had to get a member to sign you in. Somehow we blagged it. I didn't remember much except dry ice and punks and goths and bikers and hippies and their music were everywhere. And some AMAZING goth girl threatening to cut my mate's bollocks off with a rusty razor. The best bit? It was a legit club that stayed open until the tubes started at 7am. No alcohol sold, so you took yer own. £6 for non-members, £4 for member. A real bargain at the time.
A few weeks later I was at a loose end one Saturday night owing to my recent discovery that all my friends apparently hated my guts and wanted me to die.
I decided to go back to this club 40 miles away in North London. I worked in town so the trains were paid for. Stop at the ATM on the way to the station, and off I go. Except the Nationwide ATM was out or order. So were the other 3 in Staines that evening. Oh well, I can sort it in London. Get on the train.
Could I find a single working ATM between Waterloo and Angel? Could I buggery! I ended up getting there at 1 in the morning, all but skint, and walked straight through the door and into the club without paying.
I headed up these wide, deep stairs to the first floor. Pulsing music got louder. My 17 year old brain is being assaulted.
Through another door, and it got proper noisy. The place looked like a hastily vacated warehouse. Bits of furniture and benching and stuff. Chicken wire walls. A tyre swing. Televisions bolted all around showing the same movies and art films. Neon tubes here and there. It was like a massive squat. A dancefloor was over to the right, all dry ice and coloured lights and bass. Beyond that, somewhere you could buy a coffee and amazing banana and honey sandwiches.
The people were off the scale. Every subculture was there. Mostly Goth, but sexy goth and not miserable goth. Fuck me the women were outrageous, so were some of the blokes. There was a big fetish element to the look, because this was before the BDSM 'scene' got out of the Mansions and into the clubs. More than a few off duty strippers used to turn up for a boogie.
The Look was young, pervy and tripping, and makeup for everybody. Boots and hair were spiky. Boys and girls all got dressed up.
Mixed in were a lot of various 'alternative' types. Bikers, hippies, even a few skinheads occasionally. The music was a whole blend of uber-cool shit. Bags of attitude all the way.
I found a corner and sat down and rolled a little joint and wondered what to do for the rest of the night.
I didn't wait long. Two girls, in crushed velvet and crimped hair finery, came over and said hello, are you by yourself? There's a bunch of us, why don't you come over? So I did and met all these people and we hung out all night and went back to waterloo together the next morning to get the train home.
I was a motorbike courier mon-fri, so the mohican had to go under a helmet, and my black nail varnish would steadily chip off through the week. I was known as 'the Black Fingernail'. Every day, I would wear the same shit that I'd taken off the night before.
The following Saturday, I did my hair, did my makeup, and headed back to town to meet up with my new mates.
That was my 7 day week for the next few years.
Work, club, sleep sunday, repeat.
I probably went almost every weekend for the next 3 years. We had mad, crazy times. We took good drugs. I discovered how to dance. There was love, intrigue, drama all mixed up with the speed and the acid and the music. Not to mention the whole pretentious goth thing! Wahay! I loved all that! "If a thing's worth doing, it's worth overdoing" was our creed.
In all the years of going, I never saw any real trouble there. I hardly saw any bouncers, either. No cops, ever.
A few times I used to wander outside at 4.30 or so, daybreak and I've been sweating on the dance floor for hours tripping on the lights, the smoke, the clothes and bodies.
I'd step out the door and it felt like diving into a pool. Looking straight up at the building site cranes towering up from the other side of the small side street we are on, I watch them wave and ripple gently. Quick cup of tea and a giggle, and it's back inside for more. Makeup and hair would of course stay perfect throughout the night's gyrations.
The club would turn the fire alarm on for a few minutes at 7.30am to wake up the sleepers and we'd all shamble off to the tube, and hang out at waterloo for a few hours drinking tea and eating attrocious bacon sandwiches from casey jones while the LSD just tailed off nicely......
The scene of my hedonistic youth climaxed with meeting my future wife. (We were together 20 years this march) After a year or so, we slowly started not going so often, and it tailed off as these thing do.
We didn't completely stop going for years and years. New Years Eves were the final times we went. My 1986 membership card always getting us in, even without the leathers or the makeup.
For us, it was always the best club. Anywhere else we went was just so-so. Camden Palace, Elec.Ballroom, KitKat, yeah so what. This place was cheap and all-night and fucking great. There was nothing like it. When Acid House first hit, we'd get these guys in dayglo smiley gear arrivng cos their clubs closed at 4am!
All were welcome. That was probably the best of it.
Length? As far as I know, it's still going.
(Thu 9th Apr 2009, 3:16, More)
» Turning into your parents
Spit'n'polish
I swore from an early age that I'd never, ever do what my mum used to do to me, which was to spit in a tissue ('moisten' as she called it) and scrub my mucky face in public.
Horrid! Yuck! The 'soggy sandpaper' dragging your face clean... The smell and feel of her saliva drying on my face...the humiliation! For the love of God, why couldn't she just lick my face clean like any other animal?
Possibly my earliest 'future-parental' value: When I'm a dad, I'll never do this to my kids.
And I didn't! For a fledgling parent, it gave me a confidence-boosting, satisfying, affirming, and slightly smug I'm-not-my-parents feeling every time I didn't do it.
It lasted right up until the time when they were finally toilet trained and I suddenly found myself without a ready supply of wet wipes.
Then I thought: fuck it. *ptui* *scrubscrubscrub*
But fortunately by then I was a much more confident, satisfied, affirmative and smug parent. So, win!
(Sat 2nd May 2009, 11:22, More)
Spit'n'polish
I swore from an early age that I'd never, ever do what my mum used to do to me, which was to spit in a tissue ('moisten' as she called it) and scrub my mucky face in public.
Horrid! Yuck! The 'soggy sandpaper' dragging your face clean... The smell and feel of her saliva drying on my face...the humiliation! For the love of God, why couldn't she just lick my face clean like any other animal?
Possibly my earliest 'future-parental' value: When I'm a dad, I'll never do this to my kids.
And I didn't! For a fledgling parent, it gave me a confidence-boosting, satisfying, affirming, and slightly smug I'm-not-my-parents feeling every time I didn't do it.
It lasted right up until the time when they were finally toilet trained and I suddenly found myself without a ready supply of wet wipes.
Then I thought: fuck it. *ptui* *scrubscrubscrub*
But fortunately by then I was a much more confident, satisfied, affirmative and smug parent. So, win!
(Sat 2nd May 2009, 11:22, More)
» Puns
Spike Milligan....
...pretty much everything he wrote, apart from the bits about his mates dying and him getting shell-shock.
"What are you doing in that piano"
"I'm hiding"
"Don't be absurd, Hyden's been dead for years!"
-------------
"Put the cat out"
"Why"
"It's on fire"
one BILLION etceteras!
(Sun 8th Mar 2009, 20:56, More)
Spike Milligan....
...pretty much everything he wrote, apart from the bits about his mates dying and him getting shell-shock.
"What are you doing in that piano"
"I'm hiding"
"Don't be absurd, Hyden's been dead for years!"
-------------
"Put the cat out"
"Why"
"It's on fire"
one BILLION etceteras!
(Sun 8th Mar 2009, 20:56, More)
» Puns
Me! Me again!
World War One: A Brigadier is visiting the Front Line to inspect the brave young nervous soldiers and boost morale.
He pauses in front of one very young, very nervous lad.
"Tell me, soldier," he barks,"did you come here to die?"
"No" replies our man "I came here yes-ter-die"
ba-bum-CHING!
(Sun 8th Mar 2009, 21:05, More)
Me! Me again!
World War One: A Brigadier is visiting the Front Line to inspect the brave young nervous soldiers and boost morale.
He pauses in front of one very young, very nervous lad.
"Tell me, soldier," he barks,"did you come here to die?"
"No" replies our man "I came here yes-ter-die"
ba-bum-CHING!
(Sun 8th Mar 2009, 21:05, More)