Is it just me or is every single basement on Kingsland High Street some kind of bar or club of questionable legitimacy? During the day, it could almost pass for any East London high road, but come weekend nights, the streets are thronged with the beautiful and the well-dressed, lining up to squeeze into bars that range from industrial chic to sleaze-and-shab, playing host to some of the capital's best nights. Yet somehow on Saturday we ended up in the one empty club in Dalston (Barden's) and spent hours trailing all over East London with plastic cups full of overpriced, low grade red wine.
It all started off so well, I cooked not entirely rubbery calamari, we quaffed a few bottles of serviceable liquids, and we headed out for the bright lights of Dalston. After deciding against a dimly lit doorway with a six foot man dressed in a Lady Gaga-esque sequined body standing inside, and an aversion to paying entry to Dalston Superstore, we hit up the mean streets of Bethnal Green, before returning once more to the land of Kings (I take the shame for the unimaginative play on words). After a brief aforementioned daliance at Barden's we somehow ended up imbibing dubious drink back on the bus to Shoreditch, where, finally, my aesthetically gifted friend managed to charm our way into a random guestlist-only party in a gallery space. It all gets a bit blurry after the five (yes, five) storey climb to a large, empty, white space, devoid of art, or life intelligent enough to see that there's more to a night out than trying to like you're not having fun.
I think we attempted to ballroom dance.