Voltaire
We got a lot of things wrong last night. Principally amongst them was assuming Cabaret Voltaire would be an arty and intellectual place to be at midnight. It wasnt. It was full of plebs dancing like someone had borrowed their spine.
I had genuine doubts on the way in. Maybe it was the look of the bouncers, or the poster on the far side of the entrance titled “DJ Mo’Focker” (or similar). My friends and I are not a DJ Mo’Focker crowd. The bounder saw this, well done him. If I was any more of an actor I would’ve purposefully put on a stagger or a slur - just to try and throw our entries inro doubt.
We did get in. Horrid luck. A very aggressive ‘crew’ inside. The men looked particularly menacing. I’m not. In my case, the ‘First rule of Fight Club’ is ‘Don’t go’. The men all looked like they’d all walked off a scaffold and arrived on the dance-floor, without breaking stride.
The women were only slightly less intimidating. A hen night turned up, and hung around the bar. I was petrified. Which was unfortunate, because hen nights are like sharks - they can smell fear.
It was either crawl up in the corner in a collective foetal position, or get the hell out of there. We got the hell out of there.
