Friday I'm In Love

Ever since I left school I was certain of one thing; I would never go back for any kind of school reunion. It wasn’t that I had any particular problem with the place or any of my fellow pupils or teachers; I just didn’t see the point in it.

This self-induced attitude had therefore made me suspicious of reunions of any sort. So when, on Facebook, a group started up, loosely based upon a nightclub in Southampton I used to go to around 1993-1994, the first nightclub I regularly went to in fact, I initially viewed it as a mild curiosity. I could glance through my phone to see that there were photos and posts from people whose names and faces were flickering around in the deeper recesses of my memory and I smiled to myself as I remembered these images from another age.

So I remained a casual and fairly impassive observer of these posts for a while, and wasn’t at all tempted when I saw a reunion was being planned. I figured that it was all such a long time ago and besides, no-one will remember me so it’d all be terribly embarrassing.

However what I did have were some photos of my own to contribute. So I spent an afternoon going through boxes and unearthing the flattering and not-so-flattering faded images of friends of yore, and friends of now from back then when they had more hair and less girth (I include myself in that description).

The nightclub I speak of wasn’t actually a nightclub at all. It was just a night in a room above a pub on a Friday called The Attic but it was, to all intents and purposes for us, our very own goth club. The pub below was a gay bar, which was almost a perfect venue as neither party were bothered by the other and it was always pretty clear which part of the establishment you were from when you went to the toilet.

To those who have not dabbled in goth, of which there are many I’m sure, I have to stress that goths are no more scary or weird a group of people than any other. No-one is drinking blood, nobody has the power to turn into a bat and no-one is sacrificing virgins on a stone plinth. Well, not every night.

I agree that the black hair and pale faces have a slightly creepy edge and not one I went for myself, mostly because black hair didn’t suit my ruddy complexion. I experimented one afternoon and it just looked so appalling that I resorted to red and other colours that have now left me with a somewhat auburn hue. Also, applying make-up wasn’t my strong area so I didn’t do it but I’ll tell you something, any man that paints his face in ghostly white make-up, dons a frock coat, a cape and winkle pickers and walks through a city centre on a Friday night has, in my view, absolute balls of steel and I take my hat off to you, past and present.

Goths are just joined together by their common interests in the music and the literature and the…..ahhh, who am I kidding? Yes, maybe that’s the genesis of it and I haven’t done any research on it but, on the whole, there was just something about the boys and girls and men and women who were goths, or who, like me, flirted around the scene, that I quite liked.

It was a small but busy club and after a while you realised you probably knew everyone in the room, and that was a comfortable feeling. When you went to a pub in town you would often witness a fight, but at The Attic on a Friday night there was no such risk. Yes, I wasn’t alone in getting a bit giddy on snakebite and black and accidentally falling down the stairs, or bumping into the DJ area (which was in effect a table suspended down from the ceiling by chains) but no harm was done.

The Attic unwillingly closed its doors at the end of 1994 so we all dispersed elsewhere, but the vibe of the place has clearly stuck with a number of people for many years, myself included, and I suspect we’ve never found anywhere else quite like it.

So time has gone on and more and more people have joined the group on Facebook, added photos and videos (some of which I was in, much to my surprise – I don’t remember anyone having a camera!!), and joined in the many conversations. People who, whilst I hadn’t totally forgotten them, I’d certainly not thought about for a long time. It’s a weird thing but slowly the memories have manifested into the carefree feeling of the time, the camaraderie, the anticipation of a Friday night. Bear in mind, I was young and going out in Southampton still felt relatively new to me back then.

Everyone has their own place they remain fond of but for me The Attic was the first place I danced, drank, laughed, loved and occasionally fell over (damn the heels on those pointy boots I bought in Salisbury). I remember the many nights when we all crowded on the postage stamp sized dance floor and wheeled around backwards to The Sisters of Mercy or Siouxsie and the Banshees. I remember the way we used to change the words to the songs so that the opening of The Marionettes’ song ‘Like Christabel’ was changed from “She keeps her thoughts in a forest dark” to “She keeps her tits in a thermos flask”. Oh how we laughed.

I remember the night the fire brigade turned up because a nearby resident had not been aware of the injudicious use of the smoke machine and believed that the great clouds of smoke billowing out of the upper windows on a warm summer evening to be a full blown inferno. The burly men with the hose were not impressed.

I remember being sat mournfully outside one evening after being dumped by a girl I’d only known for a few weeks when I was approached by a goth called Robbie who imparted me with some sage advice, “It’s probably her time of the month, mate. Get it sorted!”. Even at the tender age of 19 I knew that these were wise words even if I didn’t, on this occasion, get it sorted. It did, however, cheer me up no end.

And of course I will always remember the night that Ned was upended into a large metal wheelie bin and bundled through the door to the backyard of the pub, only to discover there was a drop of several feet on the other side. Oh well, he lived to tell the tale.

So now I find myself in a strange place because all these memories have come racing back to me like an explosion of sight (mostly black), sounds (mostly ‘She Sells Sanctuary’ by The Cult) and smells (mostly patchouli oil and K Cider).

Each day more and more names and faces from my past are going to the reunion and, actually, I would really like to join them. Yes, it’s not the early 1990s anymore, but these people were friends. We’ve all changed of course, all older, some with kids, some in different parts of the country, but all with a shared memory of a little nightclub down Northam Road.

The sad thing is I’m going to miss out on this night of memories. Not for a bad reason of course, I’ve got a date with three mountains, all for a good cause, but when I’m heading from Scafell Pike to Ben Nevis next Friday night, tending to the inevitable blisters from my walking boots, I’ll be remembering when the blisters came from, yes, those damned pointy boots again.

So, if you’re at the King Alfred pub in Southampton that night, spare a thought for me and my aching feet, but above all have a fantastic night and party like it’s, well, 1994 I suppose.