It was around 7:30pm in Simmons, Shoreditch and our stomachs were full of various juices masquerading as cocktails. It was never the objective to end up in Shoreditch, yet we found ourselves here, feet dangling from chairs too high. It was an uncharacteristically warm Spring day in May, just shy of two weeks to the year today. Initially, we had met up in the late afternoon in Tower Bridge, my cousin had quit her job and was picking up her last paycheck, wanting me to come with just in case management decided to be difficult. What ensued for the rest of that day and night went down in the personal history books of me and her.
May 8th (and 9th) is now cemented within our personal lore as the infamous ‘All-Day & All-Nighter’ in which half a dozen venues across an approximately five mile stretch of this glorious city we call home were touched. It was a perfect night of partying that verified our party girl status.
With our hunger growing en route to Tower Bridge we decided that once we had collected the cash that we would have a wander about and find somewhere new to eat. The sun was shining after all, best to make the most of it. After about an hour of walking and talking along the River Thames we wound up at Liverpool Street, and like a siren call to sailors in the night, a window display of sweet treats drew me in to a 24/7 café opposite the station. I pleaded that we had a look, and in we went.
Once our hunger was satiated, bellies to bursting, conversation brimming with salacious tales, we decided it was the perfect time to get some drinks down us. Shoreditch was a stone’s throw away after all, it was only right.
Guilty of liking a sweet treat, your honour
Feeling practically no effect from our cocktail teapot (which till this day we question why we ordered a drink that can be spread amongst four people for ourselves, each) except the warm hum found after a pint of cider, we left Simmons for another bar this East London strip had to offer. The night was young! In fact, the night was yet to arrive as daylight carried on and the streets were subsequently meagre with people. It seemed the many who would later fill these streets were waiting for darkness to make way for their disillusion.
Entering a venue I can’t recall the name of, we nestled in at our table that sat facing the bar from a small distance, as if they were circle seats at the theatre and we were waiting for the night’s show to begin. The barman gave us complimentary shots, boasting that his staff privileges allowed for two free shots to customers a night. We wondered which one of us he was flirting with, and decided it was potentially both.
We formulated theories to explain men’s abysmal behaviour in matters of love and relationships, prompted by the fact that the guy she was seeing had gone AWOL for three days. My cousin argued that men were her discipline like anthropology was mine, that she had meticulously studied them over the course of her early twenties, and now it was time to use her knowledge pragmatically. Moved by a lethal mix of tequila shots and rum, I believe his disappearance had very much prompted this monologue.
Some hours had passed, the bartender just as flirty and the venue a little bit more packed. We decided to go fourth and find some place new. Somewhere where music roared and people actually danced. Where feet squelched across sticky floors and words went unheard over blaring sound. ‘What about Soho?’ she suggested. ‘It’s only a 35 minute bus and 15 minute walk away’ she reasoned. ‘Is this so you can see if that guy is working the door tonight?’ I replied, and a devious grin grew.
Excluding this said doorman, we often do not find the same men attractive, and I suppose it is a blessing in disguise since we spend so much time together. The threat of liking the same man and subsequently getting territorial over it is an issue we’ve never encountered (though there was the gorgeous tanned and tatted man in Hippodrome who charmed both of us; R, I miss you). The man she was after that night who’s number she pre-emptively and foolishly deleted after one date with Mr. AWOL was so handsome that I agreed to travel across London on the slight chance she could be reunited with him. He was what she deserved! And I was not to stand in way of love. I would aid in the mission of finding it.
We arrived just after 12am to the streets of Soho astir with characters, where rum whirled within me and remnants of Burberry Goddess lingered on my skin. The night air was cool, but my body burned hot. I wore a black Juicy Couture crop top decorated with heart-shaped cherries and a pleated white Playboy tennis skirt. I had a baby pink Sailor Moon tote bag filled with things I had picked up throughout the day (a bottle of water, tissues, hayfever tablets, most of my cousins belongings) and a pinstripe shirt to serve as a jacket when it inevitably got cold. My choice of outfit highlighted that I wasn’t planning to spend the night on the town, or even much of the evening.
Three nightclubs later, we found ourselves at Greek Street, the busiest pocket of West End at night. It was now 3am and we were dancing to Kendrick Lamar’s Not Like Us, days after it had been released and still shocked. I avoided the eye contact of leering guys that weren’t my type whilst men, most of which were closer to our father’s age bracket than ours offered us drinks, paid, and then continued on with their night. How seamless I thought, our only interaction together was ordering at the bar.
By this point my hair had frizzed, my feet grew heavy, and my period bloat continued to grow, aggravated by alcohol. My Fitbit buzzed and juddered on my wrist, alerting me that I was gaining ‘Active Minutes’ and crushing Zone Minute milestones. In that regard clubbing most definitely should be considered a mode of workout. The steps you put in! The movement, the sweat.
We had been out for 13 consecutive hours. Every step we took outside of the first was spontaneous, and at no point did it feel like we were chasing the night. We simply bobbed along as it took us to our next landing space. Each place felt right until it was time for the next. We adopted the role of a partying goldilocks. We spoke with strangers in smoking areas, engaged in mutual flattery with girls in nightclub bathrooms, and joked with bar staff as we ordered (or had someone order for us). Heat emanated from nearby bodies enkindling the dancefloor, whilst movement from shuffling feet in unison made rooms feel like they shook, teeming with energy.
The Lexington, Angel
This is the very essence of partying. It is important to note that these qualities can all be enjoyed whilst sober (I’ve had a few nights out where the only drink I’ve had is soft and they still buzzed with excitement). It’s the love of the game. Being but one in a swarm of people, united by a commitment to merrymaking. To physically feel music in the way you often can’t through headphones alone. To let it strike cords within you, making you its own instrument for use. To feel like the sound is altering your heart’s beating rhythm.
There is something affirming about hearing a song you love blasted through the encompassing sound system of a nightclub. Dare I say it is a feeling close to communion. I still remember where I was when I heard Drake ft. Future ‘Way 2 Sexy’ in a room full of people for the first time, texting my friend from the dance floor to hurry up and come because he was missing it. It was a moment to be enjoyed together.
Perhaps it is my reverent love of music that fuels the party girl in me. My Dad was a dancer in his youth and is still very much moved by music (he also still loves a good party), whilst my Mother is an Acid house raver turned reformed party girl. It simply courses through my veins.
Zebrano, Soho
In my teens, the desire to party was largely fuelled by a sort of Skins fantasy. I’d sip cider and chat to schoolmates in the gardens of their parents’ house who had left them alone for a weekend. I’d recognise guys from our neighbouring boys school and wait for them to strike up conversation, blushing when they did. My uniform of choice was some variation of an a-line skirt (typically my prized American Apparel dupe tennis skirt), a glittering crop top finished off with either my Reebok classics, grey suede Air Force 1s or Adidas Superstars. Every outfit was adorned with my black puffer jacket. This was essential.
15 year old me, circa 2016 (this pose had a chokehold on everyone in their teens at the time)
House parties heal and we must return to them! The Saturday before last I found myself once again on the Mildmay Overground line (far from home) late at night coming back from a house party in Hackney were I only knew two people in attendance. It was perfect. Perfect for the other fire that fuels my partygirlism, conversation. Connection. Meeting new people, finding common interests, discovering new insights to already had debates, and niche tastes shared you never thought you’d find. To me, partying is the convergence of the power of music to move us and the gift of conversation that stirs us.
Partying is the ultimate sensual escape, and not just in the sense that you might get lucky by the end of the night (though I’m a firm believer that should never be the primary aim of a night out). It invites you to feel each sensation. To move your body in line with the rhythm, to sing, to touch, to taste, to whisper, to shout. To vibrate with sound in a room, or a house of people all doing the same. Sometimes it’s about dancing in a garden to PinkPantheress’ latest album with people you’ve just met and enjoying the whimsy of it all.
A case for partygirlism isn’t a case for hedonistic, drug-fuelled, binge-drinking nights you seldom remember. Sometimes a party may tumble into a configuration of that, but that’s for the partygoer to decide. The point is, it doesn’t have to be that. Partying in essence is about sensation and connection. It is about feeling sound, and there are few things quite so special.
*
The morning of May 9th, I lay in bed, overstimulated from hours-long alcohol consumption rendering me incapable of drifting off to sleep despite the physically taxing last few hours. The thick bass of Tinashe’s ‘Nasty’ thumps in my ears as I play it out of my phones speaker directly into my ear, arms flailing in an attempt to dance lying down in bed. I text my cousin that this is our official song of the summer. I then text nonsense to the guy I like. It is now 6:30am. I get up, draw my curtains halfway to combat the already risen sun, giggle at the slew of messages I receive back, and fall asleep. It was a day, night, and morning to remember.
The sky that faithful morning, 5:13am
Queencoc0 Talks 
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