Clubs

I love glitzy London clubs. I love the extravagant furnishings and the lurid cocktails. The footballers and the bankers. The gold-plated toilets. I love having my girlies over for a pre-club pampering and champers sesh – and then hitting Kabaret or Chinawhite looking so fab we’d give the WAGs a run for their money. So when an opportunity to rub shoulders with more gorgeous guys came along I jumped at it. After all, Kate does Shoreditch, doesn’t she?

As my first assignment drew closer I started to panic. What should I wear? Could I break the three-week rule and get away with the same Prada dress tonight and on Friday? Midweek, I love the sophistication of the Long Bar at Sanderson Hotel rather than a full-on street-fashion blowout like the monthly party Domestic, but one or two glasses later and with my locks coiffed to perfection, I headed to a new venue called Punk. Feature continues

What a night of grungy glam debauchery Domestic turned out to be! Actually I felt quite at home lounging on a velvet pouffe, Bellini in hand, among clubbers dressed in their funny DIY outfits. Most of them, I’m told, are wannabe-scenesters, who go to nights like Anti-Social and Boombox, but some I’d seen at fashion-week after-parties. I had no idea they slubbed (you know, slum + club = slub) it like this! Suddenly, bin-bag and drag outfits seemed cool and one of the promoters, Molaroid, had even styled himself on a twentyfirst-century Andy Warhol.

With no ‘suits’ to buy me drinkies, I rocked up to Cheapskates to shimmy to something less shouty. I couldn’t wait to get funky in this mirrored hideout, but on arrival I realised the name wasn’t ironic. The gigantic queue was full of students swigging nasty lager and girls wearing jeans. Don’t they know how to scrub up for a night out? Needless to say I sauntered past without a backward glance – there wouldn’t have been any famous faces to spy in there anyway.

On Thursday I tried to get a grip on the new burlesque scene I saw on the ‘Faking It’ special recently. After a naughty-but-fun hour-long burlesque class at The Workers School of Excellence I bagged a table around the twinkling stage to watch the titillating Tournament of Tease.

Six amateur performers practically stripped naked! I’d never risk embarrassment like that, and I couldn’t imagine wearing those vintage threads anyway. Why would anyone want to look like their nan?

By Friday I was feeling the late nights, but thank God for Touche Eclat and leather sofas at the Soho Revue Bar’s Circus. I’m rarely seen in Soho unless I’m at a VIP club, but this is one night I’d make a beeline for again for because of the celeb count. Kelly Osbourne was in the DJ booth next to a transvestite with the biggest barnet I’ve ever seen, while swarms of colourful dancers were grinding to Beyoncé and Girls Aloud. I was soon swept up in the hedonistic atmosphere and relished the unexpected table service. Midway through the pole-dancing show, my BFF Courtney texted me from Pangaea saying that Ben from boy band A1 was there and I just had to come. Any excuse to get back to a proper velvet-roped exclusive party where my name’s always on the list. I flagged down a cab, waved at the doorman (queues are so boring!) and burst through the doors to join my darling girls in the African safari-style VIP booth. I love the music here; the new electro stuff they’re playing alongside funky house and R&B makes me lose my inhibitions and dirty-dance on the sofas. You’ve just gotta love Bodyrox!

On Saturday, the hangover kicked in and indie rock night Chalk did not help. I felt like a hunk of Gouda, melting amid the throngs of sweaty teens who’d just discovered pills – so New Year’s Eve 1999! It seemed like the speakers were on a mission to destroy my eardrums and I left as soon as I could escape the sauna-like top room and navigate the labyrinthine corridors. I wanted as far away from the neon shell-suits and screechy, trampy boys on stage as poss. What ever happened to Keane being cool?

After a disappointing Saturday night I took it easy, put the low-carb diet on hold and munched down a divine Sunday roast at Camden’s Lock Tavern. If it wasn’t for the shoebox toilets, this place would make a superb exclusive bar – but alas, I tried to soak up the jerky,
ear-splitting keyboard racket instead, wishing I was still in bed.

I thought I was an outgoing kind of girl until confronted with this challenge, but I soon realised that my idea of a wild night out was as tame as Jessica Simpson’s sex life. I am pleased to see that Domestic is back this Wednesday, but wherever am I going to go for a good time on April 1?