comeout2nite was the rather kind request from former work colleague and now firm pal @jamboshoeshine – and so comeout2nite I most definitely did, along with @darryl1974 and @richardgallon. In North London as well.
Ah, north of the river; I had a nosebleed as soon as the N63 crossed at Blackfriars. The friendly face of @darryl1974 boarded on the next stop, completely oblivious to the weird man wearing his
cravat scarf, sitting on the back seat.
A touch of onboard bus tweeting later, and the mood was set for the evening – full on fun, with a touch of confusion and misunderstanding thrown in for good measure.
The last time I drank at the Betsey Trotwood, EC1, was for a work leaving party of mine that never was. I sort of left, but didn’t really, but now have. Add into the mix the small matter of come(ing)out2nite with ex-work colleagues, and you can see how the confusion continued to creep in.
Not even time for the first drinks, when the good @darryl1974 and I were tapped on the shoulder, and tapped up by a rather charming young lady. Cripes. She was already on first names terms with us, even without any introductions. Ah, that will be a friend of @richardgallon, already told to be on the look out for two nerdy bloggers propping up the Clerkenwell bar.
As for Mr @richardgallon himself? Further confusion as a tweet dropped asking about our whereabouts. Downstairs, came the reply, not knowing that we were actually on the ground floor, unaware of the dungeon down below.
@toddnash soon made an appearance with “new lady friend,” who actually turned out to be his lovely old lady friend, despite the tenderness in her years. All of this North London clubbing lark was clearly getting to me.
And so there ends the rather long and elongated introduction into how an evening of glorious indie pop fun got off on a rather weird tangent, yet somehow managed to continue with the merry band of comeout2nite(rs), reunited in the basement bar for booze, banter and a bop.
I like to think of comeout2nite as the rather kooky younger cousin to How Does It Feel. For a club night that boasts bis, Moldy Peaches and Half Man Half Biscuit on the flyer, you know that you’re going to grin a lot throughout the evening.
Sultans of Ping took me back to the indie disco bopping of mispent youth; Stereolab’s French Disko is still a killer tune and sounded as fresh as ever as the swagger of the Marxist / cycling collectve filled the basement cellar.
Yer man @jamboshoeshine seemed to be on fine form, mixing his DJ skills with front of house meet ‘n greet duties. The Good Lady Wife (down, and then down again) was also packing them in on the dance floor with her transatlantic take on UK indie loser culture.
I loved this part of the evening. Early ’70s glam Bowie is just perfect for the feel of the evening, but none of the clichés were pulled out. Muso conversations were attempted, but ultimately your feet just can’t stand still when Helen Love comes a calling.
Sadly also coming a calling was a rather early start on Sunday morning back at the coalface. A few farewells, and then I was back on the N63 and SW8 bound. Some plum talking tart on the backseat asked if “we are at Angel” as the bus pulled in at The Oval.
Mass confusion, from start to finish. I felt like I had spent the evening in a parallel universe. Perhaps Clerkenwell is an anomaly in the space-time continuum?
comeout2nite next time to find out.
Top night, kids.