I turned 25 this weekend and to celebrate, I decided to crash a friend’s holiday to Amsterdam. This happily coincided with a club night at which our friend was DJing and it seemed like a faultless plan.
There was an international dance music conference filled with promises of late night after parties and exclusive guest lists. Not so long ago, this would have been a dream, but of late I’ve been finding my tastes have begun to lean towards the middle aged.
I wanted to go on a canal tour, visit Anne Frank’s house and eat my body weight in cheese. We did manage a couple of these things, but not before we left an irrevocable blight on the Dutch dance music scene forever.
Our friend, DJ Anna Wall has built her career on being a bit cool. She can DJ, she knows her way around Hackney and she has a friend called Chiniqua.
She has also made the fatal error of befriending a gaggle of rahs like myself, who like to believe that the fact that we refuse to live in Fulham makes us slightly edgy. Normally she gets away with it. Usually I know not to talk too much and deliberately avoid getting onto the topic of music with anyone she works with, lest I expose myself as a fraud.
This time she wasn’t so lucky. After exploding into an after party called ‘half baked’ where an enigma called Bruno (no surname) had reluctantly put us on the guestlist, we immediately sought the nearest slightly raised platform and began to throw shapes. We each leapt on Bruno in turn and smothered him with red wine kisses, thanking him for his extraordinary generosity in allowing us to dance and buy overpriced drinks in what I think in hindsight was some form of museum.
We then hurled ourselves into the crowd to dance like drunk mums at a wedding where, having acquired a couple of souvenir fans, we began to trample all over the dance floor in what we believed to be a coquettish manner.
The next day, we slunk to the airport in shame and began to look through the photos. Even more shocking than the red wine mouths and the ‘smouldering glances’ being made from behind our fans, were the photos of Bruno, standing alone, nervously aware of our presence but desperate to ignore us while we subtly tried to take photos of him from the distance. Not since K Middy’s boobs has a long lens been so keen to capture its target.
The real shame is that instead of royal baps, all we got was a club promoter with a cool haircut.