From the beginning I knew one day I’ll just get this overwhelming feeling, stand up while Lana Del Rey’s song is playing, drop my glass of red dry Tesco Finest on the Ikea carpet and whisper to myself: oh baby, oh baby, I’m in love, then start writing a post.
I’m not in love, thank god. It’s just a dramatic intro.
I love discovering new places, and even though I currently live in Glasgow, I don’t know much about the city and its unexplored corners… And I want to be honest with you guys, just like 18 year old boy is honest about his first chlamydia with a nurse at the sexual clinic in Archway. That’s why today I’d like to present you with one of my favourite London bars. Because I’m a drinker first, and a human being second. And also because half of my time in the capital I had spent out, living my 2007 Paris Hilton Wannabe life, and I feel like I have a responsibility to educate…
In my first post I have mentioned some misconceptions polish people have about London, and United Kingdom in general. Not gonna lie babes, I thought I’m gonna get outta National Express in vintage Prada sunglasses and just naturally receive all of them invitations to Kensington and Chelsea clubs, I’m gonna twerk with Toff while “Good Time” by Paris Hilton is playing.
But that wasn’t the case. You walk down the Westminster Bridge and motherfucking Evening Standard that someone dropped on the pavement hits you straight in your face. Shortly after you get asked by Japanese tourists to take a series of pictures of them with London Eye in the background. On the bus you sit between a guy who would marry his Kebab if that was legal and someone who smells like vodka from 5 New Year Eves ago that someone forgot about.
After surviving the day, long shift, hour or two on the bus/tube to wherever-in-zone-ten-you-live, you go on social media and connect with your friends. Most of them are skint, lazy, busy consuming their new lover’s body parts or writing an essay on how e-learning influences small businesses. But don’t give up, you warrior! There will always be one who’s getting over a breakup and needs to lose any leftovers of self respect on the dance floor in Heaven on Monday night, or a mate that just bought new Balenciagas and needs someone to take pictures. And what’s better for that than a night out? Let’s go places together and pretend we can afford that!
Dalston, East London. A place where you are likely to see young children stealing sandwiches from Tesco, hear gunshots, and just one moment later – notice extravagant Millennials wearing Alexander McQueen, vintage Burberry and, of course, Champion. Don’t want to be a hypocrite, I bought many things in this designer second hand they have there(Storm in a Tea Cup it is called) in my time, just struggle to cope with wealthy and bored taking over literally every single poor neighbourhood in the country.
The mechanism is simple. Certain people need certain places in areas they live in. Together with hordes of alternative people coming in, new places open. Dalston Superstore is a perfect example of an overhyped, claustrophobic shithole that’s being a response to what local community wants.
It’s a place where youthful crowd drinks Espresso Martinis, talks bullshit like: have you seen that collaboration between Gosha Rubchinskiy and Palace? or I’m thinking about squatting, to save money and go travelling, to like, I don’t know, Kosovo? What do you think?
Not my vibes. But just a two minute walk down the road, there’s a place called Birthdays, which probably is my favourite London bar. Funny enough, every single time I was there, at some point of the night I’m a slave 4 U by the one and only queen Britney Spears came on. It’s a place to be, then!
First time I ended up there, me and my friend met this amazing Italian bartender, probably the friendliest and most fun to be around bartender I have ever met. And she does great cocktails too, even though she has no clue how to make them… Later that night, my friend Ruby convinced a group of STRANGERS they should buy us alcohol and we will let them make an after party in our flat. Struggle was real.
That place reminds me of the best nights: handsome lads smoking outside, great music, my embarrassing conversations with staff. I organised my leaving party there, and I can only say one thing. When you wake up and your bank balance says £2.14 – it means something. I can’t think of a single person that wouldn’t want to go Birthdays and just for once – sit down comfortably without looking for a free seat for forty five minutes.
What’s with this whole difficult partying culture? Especially in London, people are going out to particular clubs just for the sake of being there among everyone else. Spending valuable time with people you
sleep with for money like, friends, even workmates, stopped being relevant, or at least disappeared from the front row of priorities.
After an afternoon filled with posting stuff about how epic tonight is going to be, we then spend fifteen minutes in the queue trying to buy drinks, twenty trying to use a toilet, forty waiting for people to go the fuck home so we can have our sits back after a fag break… fabric, Heaven, G-A-Y Bar, Dalston Superstore, Friday, Saturday… it’s all like Madonna – a never ending story.
See you in Birthdays! No matter if you’re a fan of cocktails or just want a cheap lager, if you want to sit down and talk about Drag Race and your manager being a dick or dance in the club downstairs – we’ll have fun there.