Prance it

Was out last night in Nightingales, another of this town's ever more notorious gay clubs. In a surprise to myself I enjoyed it immensely. I had prepped myself for the idea that the whole night would be a bit of a let down – it’s got more sitting around space than DV8 and so could be really dreary if you’ve got to sit next to a load of tedious guys all night, but thankfully this didn’t happen. I manage to get there and join the rest of the fags about 40 minutes late. I’m jogging up to the doors of this club – SUPER early – this is just getting to 10 o’clock, and find that I’m put JUST past the free entry line by the bouncer. She (!) is this huge black lady who looks like she could knock me out with her pinkie and wears a massive black coat a la the Matrix, or some other such deeply thoughtful movie. However, much to my surprise she lets me (standing there on my own) and the three lesbian ladies just in front of me into the free line, making me literally the last person to get in free! Yah to that one baby. She simply said, “Get in that front line if you like, go in the free line, but don’t let anyone catch you.” Direct and to the point I thought, but then I couldn’t decide whether that would be something that the club did almost every night to get some goodwill from those people JUST cut off from the free line. Either way, I got in for £1. So it was ALMOST free, I don’t know what the pound was about – some sort of token gesture. There wasn’t much point in it though I thought since they RAKE it in on the bar charges. Smirnoff Black = £3! That’s a five dollar bill to all you US readers.
Cheap eh! Not.
Get to find the rest of them and they’re sticking out like sore thumbs being:
a) – hugely TALL compared to me and almost everyone else.
b) – gawping at everyone around them as though they can’t take in what’s going on – FGS they’ve been to this place like 30 times at least and _I’m_ the one who looks like I know what’s going on! Anyway, we get together, move upstairs and get things rolling.
Now this is the funny thing about bars that I’ve never really understood. Half the time they have really exclusive style seating areas with beautiful (wipe clean) leather sofas to sink into. Then, as last night there’s styling that appears to have been a run-on from the 70’s or 80’s. What’s this about – they’ve got armchairs in there that look like they should be in some sort of retirement home, not a ‘hip’ gay club. What is this place all about? THEN, after sitting, pretending to be able to hear what boring Steven is talking about re interest rates, and then laughing and being bitchy with Phil, we have the shock of our evening. There has to be one – and this was certainly it. Drag queens. Now before you all start hitting out on me for not being ‘diverse’ in opinions, it’s not the fact that they were drag queens that was astonishing or anything, but their AGE. We’re sitting there and these two guys (ladies?) who must be at least 65 years old totter over to our bench thing and perch on it, their nylon dresses stretching with the folds of fat that insulate the body. You had to be there to experience it – what was best was when they started playing the piano! What a scream.
So Phil and I are gossiping about the wedgies we’d give to the boy sitting about five feet from us whose thong is riding up his ass, and then out float the most dated 50’s classic dinner hall melodies. The contrast in styles was amazing. The staff must have turned off Madonna’s ‘Holiday’ thirty seconds before this piano rendition began.
So eventually we head downstairs for a bit of dancing to the pop/’latino’/cheese music that’s going on down there. That was ok, obvious and not particularly inspirational, but ok.
What was fun was the techno room. You get up the three flights of stairs - quite a workout after a few pints, and get to the hard techno room. Having been ‘exposed’ to Radio1 and its Friday/Saturday night output for so many years, this wasn’t any big shock. However, watching Mark and especially Richie trying to cope (or not trying as the case may be) was hilarious. They were like a pair of rabbits caught in the headlights of a car, not knowing where to run to get away from the ominously approaching collision. They bailed. This is the kind of thing that I accept at the time and attempt to think past, but annoys me in the following days.
Just coming out onto the scene in the last few weeks has meant that I’ve had to dance to the most obscene crap, not knowing what it is, and getting laughed at for this. You don’t know the crap music that some freak DJ is playing and you kind of go with it to just experience what’s going on. I’ll get some 80’s music on that I’ve never heard in my life, sounds shit, yet EVERYONE else seems to know the words – they’re screaming them at the top of their lungs whilst prancing around to some queeny moves. What’s odd is how most of the young boys – the guys my age seem to know them all too, they know the music that was released before they were born. This isn’t particularly famous music. Of course there’s some music that everyone knows, and just comes up in popular culture, however this isn’t that. I’m not some sort of hermit who hasn’t been exposed to a radio in the last 15 years, it’s just bad music.
So we’re up in the dance room, and I have to say, I am THE SHIT at dance music. I was up there, on the podium, with a girl high on Poppers (like half the people in the room) and grinding it away. That was just superb. So I managed to get Phil to stay up there with me for a while. What’s great about some people in clubs is that they’ll dance with you just for the company of dancing, rather than because it’s their favourite music or they’re superb dancers. I’m going around the dancefloors and most of the guys aren’t amazing dancers, they’re no stars. However, what is the attractive thing, the thing that draws ME anyway to a person, is the energy. If someone is being energetic in their dance then they draw you to them – whether physically or just your eyes.

More stories later
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