Hot Hot Heat

There's just something about hot summer nights that makes me want to go get sweaty in tiny nightclub pop boxes where I can indeed wave my hands in the air like I just don't care. So Friday evening me, the Boy and The Boy Who Cannot Love went to hear Jerry Dammers, ex The Specials, DJ some noice ska and reggae at Native a newish club on Small Street. Oh I do love a good skank. After a slow start, the club soon filled up, mostly with a slightly older crowd who were into The Specials first time round. I amused myself by pointing out possible conquests to TBWCL and The Boy found some bloke off his head on God knows what to chat to which he always enjoys. I bopped up and down and even got The Boy to dance with me which is something of an achievement as he always refuses to participate when I dance round the living room at home. Spoilsport.

We all got exceedingly drunk on Native's deceptively cheap jugs of beer and staggered out at 3am with our ears ringing when the ska somehow segued into drum n bass. Ick. I bloody hate drum n bass. The Boy needless to say was loving it but as I can't fecking stand the foul racket, an executive decision was taken to leave. The crowd was a bit crap anyway - too many women wearing flowered dresses and heels. To a club. I ask you.

Honestly darlings, and stop me when I sound pretentious, but you just don't get the same quality clubber in Bristol you do in New York. I do miss the sheer fabulousness of New York clubs even if I don't miss the eye popping drinks prices. Still - if you are young enough and fabulous enough it's not hard to get your drinks bought for you. I used to wear a pink fun fur mini skirts with platform shoes high enough to break my ankles in out clubbing. Oh shut up, it was the mid nineties, I was 19 and really skinny. Besides this was pre the Party Monster murder when night-life in New York was still crazy.