It was a Saturday evening, and I was hurrying down the escalators at Whitechapel station to get the Lizzy line to Tottenham Court Road. I was set on only traveling to central London by bus from now on (it’s a straight bus and a scenic route!) because TfL have taken too much from me over the summer in the name of contactless payments. However, I was running a little pressed for time and couldn’t afford to be stalling in between Elephant and Waterloo for twenty minutes. I was meeting two friends at a pub nestled in the backstreets of Fitzrovia for a drink and some nduja croquettes. It was mainly for a catch up as a friend was back in London just for the weekend, and the other was technically still on the clock until 10:30pm at the earliest. We chatted in the intimate, slightly old-timey pub, its number of customers hardly reflecting the fact it was a Saturday night, and we were just a brief walk from busy Soho. With the clock striking 11pm and one friend shattered, we journey-planned our best route and made our way back to South. We get to the crossing opposite Tottenham Court Road station when my friend chimes ‘should we go to Roxy’s?’
I’d heard about this nightclub plenty from said friend, it was a typical West End nightclub. Busy, mostly filled with students during the week and people visiting London from other English towns at the weekend. ‘The music is so shit but it’s so fun’, she had once said when we were talking about places we’d been to on a night out. I’d gone to my fair share of West End clubs, particularly over the last summer, and it seems they consist mostly of DJs who’s music knowledge never veers outside of Top 40 UK Pop hits. However, sometimes, when the mood is right and you’re with good people, you just need that old Pop hit to take you there. Back and forth we decide we’re going to Roxy’s. ‘But it’s not a whole night thing, just a little boogie’, my friend asserts, ‘no, of course!’ I reply, acutely aware that I am opening at work the following morning. We’re in agreeance, to the club we go, an hour of dancing will do us good (and I think we needed it).
Whilst my one friend and I were already club-ready, dressed in miniskirts and boots, my other friend remembered she was still in her work polo, debating whether she could take it off and just wear the bralette she had on underneath. What ensued in somewhat of a movie-like fashion was the three of us standing in the middle of Oxford Street, me undressing my top two layers to give her my black fur-trim cardigan, her standing in just her bralette and jeans, putting the cardigan on as a top in true Y2k fashion. Makeover complete. We decide on a price we’re willing to pay to get in, settling on a fiver. Anymore and it’s the Elizabeth line home. When we reach the outside of the club, its red neon lights setting it apart from the rest of the dark street, the bubbly bouncer greets my friend, recognising her. However, it was £10 on the door, cash only. ‘Not tonight’ she asserts, and we walk away. Still on a bit of a buzz, particularly after our movie-montage-like outfit makeover on the street, we all glance at each other… ‘I mean, it’s a tenner’. Still not to sure, we try Nordic Bar (very pretty, equally Scandi, but not the vibe when you want to dance) but quickly leave and head back to Roxy’s. We are humbled by the bouncer and his cheeky grin as we show our tickets that we hastily bought online on the walk from the other venue.
The club is packed and a pretty mixed crowd. We get a drink, mine a medley of vodka, fruit juice and glitter packed into a shot, and head to the dancefloor. People make out on couches and insecure boyfriends wrap their large forearms over the necks of their dainty girlfriends, as if every man in the club is a potential threat to their agreed monogamy. We scope the scenery and push through to the middle of the floor. Immediately, Waka Waka by Shakira blares through the speakers, and we glance at each other and laugh. Good God, the music is bad. Why do central clubs love this song so much? As drunken groups belt out the oh-so familiar lyrics, we promise that no matter the next song, we’re dancing to it. Luckily, its Peggy Gou and we’re good to go. As more pop songs ensue, I’m accosted by a guy who insists on showing me his Spotify playlist, shouting in my ear “this place just needs a Garage Emcee”. I nod along and walk off, as I catch him in my periphery throughout the rest of the night, complimenting me and then retrieving periodically. I take silly videos with my friends and dance to music that wouldn’t be saved on one of my playlists. Its fun and its silly and we get to dance under flashing lights amongst a crowd, just as intended. The DJ hears our cries and spoils us with some 80’s Michael Jackson before the intro to Kanye West’s Gold Digger starts to play and the whole club bounces.
As Boney M.’s Rasputin begins to play, we take it as our queue to exit and call it a night. Still giddy, we laugh our way down the energetic London streets towards our night bus since the last train has been and gone. We airdrop pics and videos to each other, have a mini photoshoot by the bus stop, tease the DJs choice of music and reflect on the good night. Upstairs on the packed 176 we cackle away, make conversation with a group of Frenchmen and laugh at blurry, ill-lit selfies of us. It was honestly the funniest night I’d had in a while. And this is exactly what London nightlife is about.
This isn’t a case for binge-drinking and debauchery, it’s a case for fun. Reports suggest drinking is down but demand for leisure is up (See London at Night Executive Report, 2018). This is what we can’t lose as rising electric and gas prices coupled with noise complaints from former country-side-dwelling, gentrifying residents take the lives of club after club in London. You cannot move to lively, urban areas characterised by their ‘bustling nightlife’ or ‘creative scene’—attributes which attracted you to them in the first place—and then impose noise complaints on venues which keep the very area alive. This is particularly the case for culturally rich inner city areas like Brixton, Peckham, and Dalston which each boast great nightlife scenes. If you seek quiet, stick to the suburbs.
We cannot lose our nightlife. Economically, this is also true, as revenue from the nightlife sector, particularly in the West End helps keep this city going. Some may say ‘well then lets revive house parties’, and to that I am in favour. Particularly for disenfranchised groups where clubs would refuse them entry or not play what they wanted to hear; house parties were the answer. They’re also a cheaper and more intimate alternative to clubbing. One X (Twitter) user suggested that’s how our generation will find love again. However, our generation do not own homes, and for most of my agemates apart from the elite few, I don’t see that on the horizon for quite some time. As one user aptly put it “do we even have houses?”. Aside from financial improbability, can we not have both? Private parties as well as a club we can seek out when the evening calls for a dance?
In times of economic downfall, we need escape. We need a place to have a spontaneous night out, to move our feet along sticky floors to thumping music in a dimly lit setting where nothing else matters except for the next song. Tomfoolery is a great antidote to tough times, and after the week I had, believe me, I would know. Let’s keep our nightlife lit.
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