Clubbing Singa Style

Thursday was going to be a quiet night, we had a weekend of engagements and had already been out twice that week, so needed some rest. But it was not to be, post yoga we had some dinner. Nice and quite chilled, I was then informed that we were on the guest list for Ministry of Sound. Now although bed beckoned this seemed like an opportunity that needed exploited. Cause let's face it a night not planned is always more enjoyable. And most of the City had spent some time queuing to get into this place since it opened a couple of months ago.

MOS as it's conveniently known has been topic of conversation since we arrived, without anything significant to talk about it figures (the frustration has to come out somehow!!). So we'd heard all about the 8000 capacity, 1.5 hour queues, VIP suites, multitude of rooms and themes. I was trying to work out how clubbing like this was possible without the drugs, from what I could see English versions of this sort of thing relied on the clientele being high.

Well anyway we went - we ended up having to go in a posh cab who took advantage of the fact there weren't any other cabs around and bargained with us, we agreed to pay him 5 quid to take us about 1/4 of a mile (I had suggested walking but nobody walks anywhere). So we drew up to the door, stepped from the merc and swanned up to the door - the wrong door it turned out so we limboed under the velvet barriers, stumbled around a bit and got to the right place. Fortunately the crowds had decided Thursday's aren't cool so nobody was their to witness our less then glam entrance.

Into the lobby which had a fucking cool light, thousands of bead shaped lights strung from the ceiling about 15ft above us. Like looking up into lit rain. So I booked the yoga mat and bag into the cloakroom - and showed my glowing forearm to the bouncer - here begins the how many cool things can we think of to do here. We all had been stamped and then when below the luminous light it glowed white on our skins.

In we go to pleasure haven, hedonists central, the ultimate sweet shop for generation x, frivolity and mindless fun in extreme measure. We came into swish back lit bar, looking out across a huge pit of dance floor complete with cages, podiums and speakers the size of tanks. This space was overlooked from above by a curving gallery, with spiral stairwells in three corners with slinky sofa's under them for a darkened place for illicit encounters. The third means of elevation was a escalator - for fuck's sake a bloody escalator in a club (it may well be I haven't been out clubbing anywhere decent for 10 years so if your local late night establishment had such a thing in 2000 please enjoy my naive enthusiasm).

I got a drink and then decided to explore, up the escalator gliding past this vast glass wall which was hung with multiple golden lamps through which you could see the faces of your fellow Sounder's. Feet springing off plush carpet and muffled by the velvet walls I followed the crowd round and begin to really look at who was here, and it turns out everyone was here. Past the darkened red glow of a private room where lonely couples huddled on suede cubes, champagne on ice on glass tables, looking out across pulsating scarlet disco floor, to the window surrounded by flaming fluorescent lights where us mere mortals of the scene could gawp at them and acknowledge their place higher up the food chain. Now heading across a wide gallery, curved with bright white molded stools and tables with translucent tops. Martinis, beers, wine in tall stemmed wine glasses and a MOS staff person quietly leaning across to change the half full fag tray. The whole place is crawling with staff who morph in and out of the darkness, silently clearing glasses, ash, debris that falls from the elegant limbful women who's elbows jut out all over. The pink shirted security also glide in and out of the crowds, quietly reminding us we cannot take anything on to the dance floor except our moves, reminding the Leary that they can't behave exactly as they'd like.

Moving round past doors opening into different coloured rooms, the door opens and you glance into something particular and your aural nerve has to decipher the mix made from music genre meeting genre which is there and then shut off as the door softly rests back snug. There's a bird's eye view of the dance floor, where you can glare down at the dancers in their gladitorial pit as they gradually swell the crowd of swinging, pumping, gyrating bodies which eventually lose their identity and become a mass where you can be lost. Singular souls sit staring out, unsure, alone and waiting for intoxication where they can be vocal and engaged. In groups business men laugh out, beer and bubbly strewn on the table, leggy long haired ladies drape themselves across lean stools. Regular men and women, in work wear or casual - long skirts, slacks, shirts and sweaters nothing special - no cool moves, no flashy drinks - chat and dance, as if at a family wedding. Young kids giggle in groups that multiply then shrink ever few moments as parts are dragged off to dance, fix hair, conspire in romantic trystes. Expat indie boys in low jeans, ugly faces pull tall busty just past 15 year olds towards them, the girls dance against them like they're poles. Punky kids stand solid in small groups. A middle aged grey middling couple are escorted with a be-torched pink shirt to a quiet table, amongst the wobbly white revellers, and unsure side to side dancers.

So here's the difference, this glorious luxuriant, crazy club was full of ever type of person, no restriction or concern about the look of the clubber. No need to be paid up member of the beautiful people, or be wearing a particular look, brand, ridiculous symbol of some sort. Everyone is let in, and they're all partying side by side. No derision, fighting, feisty looks. Every crowd and group had a rep, grunge, pop, retro, indie, punk, hip hop, RnB and all the others beyond definition.

I was impressed, especially with the disco room, complete with 20+ mirror balls, proper Saturday Nigh Fever dance floor, mirrors, egg chairs, psychedelic lights and spinning walls. Second fave was the white bar - lit with pinks and blues, with round sofas, individually enclosed with muslin curtains and full of fat cushions.

We danced, imagined we were on the set of a Snoop Doggy Dog video, grinding, writing, pumping. Then we were tried so went next door for a drink, under the stars in a bar with a fish tank and huge ethnic type statues from some ancient civilization (made to look like it anyway) guarding the entrance.

So that was Thursday, Friday was pool party and bbq - swimming in the dark expecting cramp or a monster to come up from below. Saturday we walked over to Malaysia, had some curry, saw some poverty and drunk beer in posh hotel - next door to shacks with corrugated roofs. Our meal for three of us cost us 16.50 ringetts, this is about 2.75 pounds. Our drinks cost us 65 ringetts, or 11 quid. We paid a guy 50 ringetts to take us from the hotel back to the land of wealth and plenty, he was bringing up 7 kids.