?

Log in

No account? Create an account

Previous Entry | Next Entry

We go looking for a club, and come to the conclusion that we have the wrong guidebooks, as (possibly through mistranslation) venues described as "friendly, with a studenty crowd," turn out to be enormous major dance venues with intimidating frontages and fuck-off bouncers. We beat the streets looking for somewhere inviting-looking but between too smokey, too noisy and too wanky we aren't doing well.

Eventually we catch a strain of Duran-Duran from a black doorway and veer in, vinrating in sympathy with the 80s. Enigmatic. The bar seems to be run by someone who woke up one day and thought, "I know, I'll run a bar," ( with an enormous shelf-full of football trophies perhaps explaining where the money to do that came from) and then, "I'll play all my CDs like a proper DJ, and all my friends can come to the bar, and we'll have a brilliant time! Yeaaah!"

A noble impulse, but the musical mix is kind of neck-snapping, his taste being a mad grab-bag of everything he ever liked; all the songs on the party mix tape he ever had a brilliant time to, songs he slow-danced to in the 80s, football songs, odd bits of europop, cover versions, original versions, Dirty Dancing and Madness rubbing shoulders with sub-Kylie warblings, I look at my enormous penis and Maria Carey burbling about all she wants for Christmas.

More cabaret than DJ, and clearly of the opinion that if people don't like it here they can fuck off (there are 15 people in the bar, tops) the guys behind the bar spin, shout, sing along, put on stupid hats and repeatly ring a last order bell, in a series of different rings which seems to be a primitive form of communication. Two rings for, "they still haven't left, break out the Mariah Carey," one for, "I'm bored now, can't we run a coffeeshop instead?"