‘Something tells me we aren’t dressed edgily enough for this
place.’
Within the space of a couple of minutes, we’ve gone straight
from a poetry evening to THE edgiest club night east of the Urals. We didn’t
know it was going to be a club night, we just thought it was a bar. Turns out
it’s a club night. Very much a club night.
We didn’t know about the poetry evening either actually.
Olga and I decided to meet up at the same bar which held the vinyl evening last
week. She’s been ill, and we hadn’t seen each other for a while. We wanted to catch
up and discuss an INTERRA project which we had to start that week. There was an
open mic and a very chatty host who tried to coax people up to recite poems. We
don’t have a great tradition of learning poetry by heart from a young age in
the UK, but it’s a huge thing in Russia, so everyone in the bar was equipped
with something to recite if they had to. And sure enough, a surprising number
of people read a poem or two. One of the barmen was even convinced to recite
something. The host managed to drag the evening out for more than two hours
after I arrived. There were poems in French, Russian, and languages which I
didn’t recognise at all. I wonder what would happen if you ambushed people at a
bar in London and asked them to read poetry? It would probably be entertaining,
but for different reasons…
We talked about the stand we were going to run at an
environment-related festival, came up with the vague idea of doing a treasure
hunt of some description, and called it a good day’s work. After we’d turned our
full attention to the poems for a bit, we left. I’d brought some ‘English’
pancakes so I could show Olga how pancakes should be eaten (not with cottage
cheese and sugar). She had the idea of getting a hot chocolate with them,
because it was so cold outside that our breath was steaming up. As we walked down
the street towards one of the coffee trailers, we heard some Nicki Minaj
playing in one of the shops, and I got all excited. Just
needed the choonz to counterbalance all the poetry I’d heard, you know? Olga
noticed me dancing, and said that if I wanted to hear more of ‘that type of
music’, we should go to a basement bar that plays a lot of trash.
When we got to the bar, there were bouncers on the door and
a lot of people about my age standing around the entrance smoking. Should have
guessed that it was a club night, but I didn’t, and now here we are. It’s like
the Mos Eisley Cantina scene in Star Wars. We’ve just walked in wearing big
thick coats, woolly jumpers, and rucksacks. My rucksack has my name on the
back, and it’s full of books, and has apples and snacks in it, which baffled
the bouncers, who decided to go ahead and confiscate the apples(?). I can hear
the music before we get into the bar, and it definitely isn’t Nicki Minaj.
Tonight, they’re playing some very thumpy electric stuff, and they’re playing
it very loud. The first person I see when I get into the bar is wearing a red
velvet tracksuit with bright red trainers that look like they’ve got doorstops
glued to their soles. His look is topped off by white duct tape in a cross over
his back and bum, a red velvet bucket hat which flops over his face, and some thick
black shades peeking out from under its brim. And he’s not even the tip of the
edgeburg. Everyone here is wearing sunglasses, with thick (generally neon)
frames. In fact, neon seems to be the theme. People have hoodies with flashing
neon words stitched into them. I won’t list the words here, some of them are
pretty inflammatory. They’re selling neon carnivalesque masks in one corner of
the room, and lots of people are wearing them. Actually, more or less everyone’s
wearing shades or a mask. I give my coat in at the cloakroom and then take my
woolly jumper off in the hope that whatever’s underneath will be a touch less
nerdy. It’s a crew polo shirt from the charity I sail with. It has a big ol’
picture of a training yacht on the back, and a nautical crest stitched onto
each breast… I glance nervously over at a girl who’s dressed entirely in red and
white Supreme stash (a skateboarding brand whose clothes sell for eye-watering
sums), and decide to turn the collar of my polo shirt up.
Apparently these club nights only happen once every month or
so, so it’s a big deal when they do happen. A couple of guys walk past us with stickers
issued by the club night organisers plastered all over their faces, and soon
everyone seems to have decided that this is fashionable, because Olga and I are
the only people in the bar without stickers on our faces. I wouldn’t know where
to procure a sticker even if I wanted one. We put our bags down in an enclave in
the wall by the dance floor, and start to shuffle awkwardly, with one eye still
on our bags, of course. The guy next to me starts properly breakdancing, with
spinning on the floor and everything. I raise the stakes by doing the Floss,
and then throw in a couple of Big Fish Little Fish Cardboard Boxes. Then I go
over to Olga and shout ‘I’m not sure this is working. How can I edge myself up?’
I start rummaging for a pen in my bag, with thoughts of graffitiing my own face
a bit, but Olga stops me in time and pulls some shades out of her bag. I put
them on and pull my collar up again. Olga shakes her head, and I put my collar
down, dejected.
 |
| 'Passably edgy' |
One of Olga’s friends comes up to us and tells me that my look is ‘passable’ here, which she definitely just said to make me feel better, but I’m 100% going to take. On our way out, someone says something to me in Russian, and I give him a stupid grin in lieu of a bum bag to point at.
‘Sorry’, I say, ‘I’m English.’
His name is Artem, and he seems very keen to make friends.
‘You got a light?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘Ok, come with me.’
He walks up to a group of girls. ‘Any of you got a light?
This guy’s English.’
He shoves me into the middle of the circle like some sort of
sacrificial offering, and then one of the girls lights his cigarette. They seem
a little less bemused than me, but still slightly baffled.
‘Where in England are you…’ one of them begins, but she’s
interrupted by Artem.
‘What do you think of Russian girls eh?’
I look at Artem for a good long time. He’s serious. He
thinks that’s a reasonable question to ask when surrounded by girls. I feel a
bit put on the spot, and I say ‘can I ask you something? What’s with the
Russian obsession with Russian women?’ A couple of people (men and women) have
told me proudly that Russia’s greatest exports are its vodka and its women, which
strikes me as a curious thing to boast about. And in fact, the girls here all
look a bit put out that I haven’t answered Artem’s question.
He, in turn, doesn’t answer mine. He just slaps me on the
shoulder and walks up to the closest girl. He holds his hands out, fingers
pointing towards her, and moves them up and down, showing her off like a prize
in a game show.
‘Come on now, isn’t she beautiful? Look at her beautiful
eyes!’
‘Ahem. Er yes. Yes, nice eyes.’ I say, nodding at her. ‘Keep
up the good work!’ For some reason which I can’t fathom, the group seems not to
be happy with this. All the girls are looking at me askance, and there’s a
general scuffling of feet and scratching of heads as they try to work out how
to extract a more meaningful compliment from me. Then Artem’s girlfriend runs
up, and he grabs her.
‘Tayo, this is my girlfriend. Come on now, isn’t she sexy?
You must admit Russian women are the most beautiful in the world.’
‘Yes Artem, very nice girlfriend. Very nice Artem. Well done Artem’s
girlfriend, excellent work.’ Artem looks like he’s about to hit me, so Olga and
I make a swift exit and grab our bags. Before we go, I retrieve my apples from
the bouncers, who make a joke that I don’t understand.
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