Clubbing at "The Pink Toothbrush"

Last Friday I went to my local nightclub, called The Pink Toothbrush. Being granted the ability to indulge in my local (albeit limited) nightlife after my entire 18th year stifled by A Level misery in lockdown was hugely enticing. The venue had taken on a near-mystical quality as a child, only glimpsed inside if you could make it during the Christmas lights switch-on, forever knowing it had once been called 'Crocs' and gave a home to real alligators. As you get older you find you have a lot more things organised, and so I received my second jab beforehand, shuffled through a converted pharmacy. Oddly, there was a print-out of Madonna's Ray of Light stuck to the wall, which I realised must've been my kindly doctor's favourite album. I felt astounded and inspired in equal measure by this presentation of sheer confidence in his personal taste, his Madonna fandom for all the village to see, defying all stereotypes and popular critical opinion. If he had blu-tacked OK Computer or Dark Side of The Moon, he wouldn't have been nearly as cool. I was so distracted by this the nurse had to reiterate the instructions to wait outside, like I had been instantly struck with some side effect. And so as once again my arm felt a little sore, I waited in my cubicle and immediately left for the pub to get one step ahead of any possible grogginess the vaccine could give me. 

It was absolutely heaving inside, and as I waited by the bar for my friend to arrive, cradling my uncultivated pick of their beers, I was pleased to sharpen my dilapidated social skills ahead of freshers week with some old school friends I ran into, all excited to end up in the same place that evening. Some of particularly strong mettle had even spent all three opening nights last weekend in the venue. If they had staggered back three times, and were coming back for some more like a raving Oliver Twist, I figured it must be good.

And good it was. It was a fun few hours and I had a great time. It's a place geniunely full of character when so much in the high street melts into the ocean of commerciality. It was brilliant because my experience can't have been that different from how it was decades previously. Charmingly operating on a cash-only basis, the carpets really were sticky, cans of cider only two quid a pop, revellers who had come from all around were friendly. There was a beautiful mural of Ian Curtis on one wall, accompanied by some rather less-stylish paintings of horror film characters running alongside a seating area. The dance floor may budge you up but for more space you can hang out on the stage that runs along it, complete with two cages harking back to it's alligator roots. I went in these enlarged bird cages for a boogie a few times with my mates for reasons unclear. Perhaps these reasons are unnecessary. My mood was only slightly dampened on entrance. I was stopped by a bouncer's arm - I emptied my pockets, the whites of my jeans out to emphasise, arms aloft like the Angel of the North, utterly confused at his complete silence for a while save for a grin; one of the kind that the phrase 'shit-eating' was invented for. In all fairness, I was probably too eager hearing Joy Division's Transmission behind the door, and he soon let me pass with a good smile once he saw my post-vaccine symptoms sheet, having assured him I would not be injected with anything else. 

So - loads of friends to enjoy the place with, cheap drink and a searingly-loud sound system - but how about the music? We were promised a range of Alternative anthems across the decades, and though it leaned somewhat to 90s pop-punk - Green Day, Blink 182, that sort of thing - every half an hour or so you were rewarded with a big-hitter from The Cure, The Smiths and The Jam, to name three - singing myself hoarse to Town Called Malice with my mates was absolutely brilliant, and I was so knackered afterwards it didn't matter what the DJ would choose to play. Covering my jabbed forearm, I had a Bowie top on. Partly, this was to convince I was cool and alternative and I knew what I was doing. I uncourageously convinced myself it were a suitably shameless conversation starter in the off-chance I was being fancied. This did not happen but Bowie was played - Let's Dance, a great choice - and I did go nuts. The DJ was looking out for me. 

(Addendum: Just for fun, I've made a playlist of what I'd be playing if I were a Pink Toothbrush DJ. I've tried to put classic crowd-pleasers alongside some more obscure. By no means an ideal general club playlist - I don't think What a Fool Believes would go down too well with revellers - but if they're reading this in the off-chance they need someone to cover - I'm your man. Or just put it on shuffle.)