Shoreditch Twats

I went up to London at the weekend to bid farewell to Ms Bear before she went off on a years break from the city smoke. She is heading to Europe and then to volunteer on some organic farms on the Scottish isles. Leaving Brighton at eight o clock we didn't reach her place till midnight. This might seem an impossibly long journey time but thanks to good old rail engineering works, bus replacements and the notoriously unreliable (although sneakily free) 149 this is actually how long it took us. I might also give a little credit to a wonderful hotel shower in the financial district but I don't want to take the glory away from the British public transport.

Now, despite the fact that a few of my favourite haunts in Brighton have fully embraced the late licensing laws, midnight is still a bit too late to arrive for a few farewell drinks in our fair city. Not so along the Kingsland road it appears! We found Sarah and her entourage two doors down from her street in an unmarked building where we had been instructed to knock for admission. Nobody answered but we soon met a girl who advised us just to push the door. This place was soooooo cool. Now I know I'm totally showing my lack of city etiquette as I'm sure you're not supposed to rave about how great places are but just be casually seen hanging out there but frankly I don't care about all that crap.

The bar is run by some French folks and apparently serves as a market on the odd occasion but by night it was rather special. It had lovely big leather chairs that felt like thrones and light fittings embellished with bunches of flowers and generally resembled a very large, simple but artistic living room. the place was full of dancing people, and played a wonderfully eclectic mix, from eighties classics to reggae to New Orleans Jazz. Despite looking pretty street the DJ was amazingly un-arrogant. The bar doesn't have a name nor does it appear to have a licence which made it feel a little like I imagine a speakeasy might have felt.

To add to our enjoyment there was an abundance of (i quote the Greek), 'Shoreditch Twats' living out their art in their every move and highly ridiculous clothing. The highlights of which were some 19th underwear, a baggy white sweatshirt posing as a dress with penises scrawled on the back with a marker pen and one woman dressed as a maid (more of the Nora Batty variety than the sexy french kind). All very strange, highly pretentious and frankly, damn hilarious. There was also an abundance of people wearing cardboard masks of David Lynch, two of whom were kissing each other and I promise I wasn't on acid! When we inquired as to the meaning of these masks we were given the oh so honest answer by one guy that David lynch was his step dad. Personally i don't have a step dad, but I'm pretty sure its not normal practise to wear them as a mask when you go out dancing?

All in all it was a damn good evening and made me yearn for all the great things about city living.