the night i didn't see Twisted Wheel

FAC251

The across the road three floor space for all retro appreciatives opened a couple of weeks back, long enough for paint to dry on all things done on the cheap for the drinking of beer and the watching of Twisted Wheel Friday last.

Packed to the bar space, a cross section of clubbers that spanned twenty five years of skin constitution, life experience and trends breathed the same air, soaked the same lighting, nodded, poked and cheered as the band played on.


It was with some trepidation that I stepped into this mini club nestled in the middle of the city night -

form a queue please, form a queue, keep the stairways clear.



The stairways snake away to three floors (not counting the lost persons trading office in the basement).

The crowning floor houses hunched lines of rotating spotlights filed along the ceiling apex, promoting a 'hemmed in' feel. Not that it matters too much, when the sports event of the evening is getting a drink before the next smiley person.

Down a floor and there's the dual sex toilet bank for deposits; complete with rough trade finish. (Having a number one was a bit like chinese water toilet torture), a landing area lost to passing refugees from other floors; the occasional suited guy keeping eye over proceedings like some indiestylesecretservice.

The middle room houses a dancefloor finding its way to the bar, mounted behind which are three ottoman sized screens providing a roll call of stars - Patti Smith, Ian Curtis et al - though not perhaps so surprisingly, any hint of SPM...

Going down again and the band space - Twisted Wheel wus well gud, not that i could see them, hugged into a brick corner, making way for the fat black bag carrying bar staff chucking out the refuse.

And lo... All was sated as the night unfolded back out onto the street and into the taxi driven night.

nice one, sorted, ting...