Maybe it was the horrific mash-up of music. Maybe it was the copious amounts of Sambuca. Maybe it was the dim sum. Maybe it was the reunion with one of my oldest friends. Whatever the reason, last night- despite its cringeworthy terribleness (including me getting chatted up by a 17 year old boy)- was one of the best nights in a while.
Only in Soho could you find a club where the DJ goes from The Clash to Barbie Girl to The Cure to Build Me Up Buttercup. Yes, I left my soul at the bottom of a shot glass but to be fair, my soul was lost a long time ago, around about the same time my dear friend K came into my life. There is something beautiful about an old friend who you just can’t get rid of, no matter how far away you move or how many continents you travel across, and how each time you see them it’s as if it was only moments ago you last saw them.
Nostalgia was definitely the theme of the evening. Suitably debaucherous like our early teen selves, only we were wearing heels. Stepping back and looking at K and I, in our lovely dresses and high heels, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. To me, we will always be the girls who matched our belt colour to our underwear. And our eye make-up. Not one of my finest fashion moments but who are you to judge? We still drink and dance and swear like the 15 year old Mancuian girls, and while my accent may have been tamed by Southern boyfriends and constant migration away from Northern territories, K’s is still the same. Hearing those dulect, vaguely Gallagher-esque tones drift over the bathroom stall brings joy to my heart.
So we play dress up in our heels, that are in no way suited for the kinds of shapes we have the tendency to throw on the dance floor. Our old limbs cannot handle our heels so we lean nonchalantly on the bar as our deformed feet scream.
We don’t give a shit. We will always be 15.