Kate and Mariam interview Goldsmiths students to find out the tea about London nightlife!Show less
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Tag: first person
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Overheard by the Bartender
Travel to the streets of Peckham to find out the gossip behind the bar from a bartender based in Central London.
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Clublands True Colours
On the guest list? Always have a plan B if you’re black, as you’re never promised a seat at their table. We investigate the true colours of London’s Clubland.
he littest clubs with the hottest DJs, the Central London club scene is notorious for being exclusive and cut-throat and in particular with attitudes towards picking women to populate events. It’s a vicious circle for club goers who want to be on the list… but at what cost? For some Londoners, the colour of their skin is becoming a barrier to enjoying the clubland experience.
Nia is a 26-year-old, newly qualified solicitor who loves to live a soft life and party hard on the weekends. She lets us in on her experience with Mayfair Nightclubs.
I received an invite to Reign London by a promoter named Ali, he promised to out me on the guest list, with a table and free drinks for all of my friends. I always wanted to go to Reign, so I was excited. It has a reputation for being a lit and exclusive club, so I was interested to see what it was really like. There were two security guards and one Eastern European door lady at the entrance. Her energy seemed off.
Once I told her my cousin and I, for context we’re both black, were on Ali’s guest list, she looked at us blankly and bluntly told us that his table was full and to ask him to come outside. We were confused as to how the club could be full at 11pm, when the line opened at 10:30pm? Out of curiosity, I checked his Instagram to see how his table really looked – there were only two girls there. The door lady asked us to leave the queue and wait elsewhere. I was so annoyed – he invited us and we were still treated this way.
“As a black woman, I’m used to stuff like this but they had no reason to turn us away based on our physical appearance that we didn’t fit their ‘quota’.”
I DM’d Ali and filled him in on the situation and he asked for my WhatsApp, then he messaged me redirecting my cousin and I to another club, LUXX. This club was only a 5 minute drive from Reign, but that doesn’t make it any more appealing. This wasn’t the plan, and Ali started making excuses by claiming that he was ‘helping us’. The female bouncer made a snark comment claiming that it’s a 21+ club and denied us entry, even though I was 25 and my cousin was 23 at the time. Ali finally shut me down making excuses that the decision was up to the club and not him, so at that point I blocked him.
My cousin went home really upset, she thought it was her fault that we didn’t get in. I explained that it’s because they don’t like how we look. I’ve seen the most mediocre females get into these clubs because they’re white. People may receive that as an insult, but it’s not. Mid white women have a privilege. For black women to get even half of what they have we have to be twice as attractive and well dressed.
I posted a TikTok about the situation with text receipts, a year after posting it surprises me how I still get engagement till this day, but it’s so important that I raised awareness. If the club has a specific look that they want, why was the promoter DM-ing me telling me to come?
But Nia’s not alone. Tiah is a 22-year-old former NHS worker, a self-proclaimed homebody, but on occasion likes to turn up on the weekends with her girlfriends.
“It stings more when it comes from your own people.”
For a friends birthday, she planned for a group of us to party at a Central London club. I had a slight feeling that I would face some sort of discrimination, but I just kept it in mind. We got there early, with barely anyone in the queue. She is a White Latina and goes to these clubs a lot, so we followed her lead because she knows how to carry herself in these situations. Out of our group, I was the darkest one, I consider myself brown skinned.
The door people were sizing the queue up, judging what people are wearing and if they looked suitable enough to come in. There were two black girls in front of us who didn’t get in. It got to us and standing before us were three female security staff at the door; one white, mixed race and black. Funnily enough, the woman with my skin complexion was the one that I felt the most disapproval from.
She scanned me up and down, said hi, in a belittling tone, I felt that her energy was off. Then requested my ID and then peered down at one of my friends who was sitting on a step as her heels were hurting.
Our entry was denied because the club night was suddenly 21+ and the birthday girl was just turning 20. One of my friends thought that vibe was off with the door lady towards me. I explained it’s because I’m the black girl in the group. I just felt like that the black lady was very ‘whitewashed’, she was the same colour as me and still treating me that way. I didn’t entertain it and kept it classy because I refuse to play up to a stereotype if I retaliated and proved her right.
The reasons behind this unfair treatment are clear, according to our anonymous promoter source, who hosts events for Central London clubs.
“It’s so brutal, you do really have to be a cunt to work in that.”
I work in Mayfair. It’s good because the clubs give fair payment, including £10 per girl invited and a percentage for people buying a table, which normally go for at least £2,000. Promoters get in for free. However, if you’re a nice person and not trying to do clubbing your whole life, it can be a bit damaging for your image. As it can ruin relationships, especially when they reject people that you actually respect who don’t fit the ideal image of the strict door people.
The promoter says that in their experience the clubbing scene is very selective and exclusive. We as promoters, do care for our guests but don’t have control over who gets accepted, the people in charge are usually a really cunty door girl and the nightclub manager. You have to be mean in this industry and it’s hard because people think that promoters have a lot of power but they really don’t. They confirm that women of colour are held to a higher standard and look for women who have whiter features and cute outfits.
The staff at the door are really brutal towards black girls who don’t have those features. The treatment differs depending on which club you bring them to. But even if they do get let in, they will not get a table. Apparently it’s because a lot of the guests buy tables which are worth thousands of pounds and they want to see ‘beautiful models’, not everyday girls.
The promoter adds that clubs are OK with one black girl, but when there’s a whole group, they don’t like it. The tend to be redirected to ‘easier clubs’ and end up having a better time there.
The door people are all white, they pretend that they ‘don’t see colour’ but if a black girl was acting ‘ghetto’ then they would feel uncomfortable. The clubs believe those girls might cause trouble. They favour black girls who they consider posh and proper.
A lot of people find me on TikTok and it’s hard because there will be girls who go to promoters who have already rejected them, and come to me thinking I can get them in. I can always try but can never promise they will get in through me.
This racist clubbing system is very outdated, not aligning with our diverse London culture.
“I don’t think they’re going to be progressive and once they see that people have no hope in Mayfair, they might try to change for themselves. I hope they will change, maybe an article out one day that calls them out?”
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The Price of Hedonism
What does it feel like to be in the throes of MDMA? One man’s rise and fall from a trip on Mandy. As told to Zandi Mlotshwa by an anonymous raver boy.
1. The Come Up
“
The best and worst substance that I’ve ever taken is MDMA.
People obviously talk about heroin and crack, and I have considered modest doses of meth and GHB just to kind of dip my toes in the chem session scene – if you don’t know what that is, it’s a naughty gay sex thing. But as a cheeky-chappy raver boy, I think pill popping is as far as I’ve come so far to feeling absolute unadulterated bliss.
MDMA is both a hallucinogenic and a stimulant, and it comes in two forms: pills (or pingerz) and crystals, which are generally called ‘Mandy’. You can get creative with the Mandy (MDMA crystals): you can grind them up under the weight of your fist or a debit card and snort them, or wrap the powder in a Rizla rolling paper, twist it and swallow with water like a Hay fever tablet. That’s what we call a bomb. Or you can just paste the powder around your gums. You’ll be sorted for a night if you’re taking Mandy ‘cause MDMA crystals are generally purer.
Mandy is disgusting. The last time I did this business, I mashed up the Mandy, about half a gram which is a good amount, and put the powder in a bottle of lemon-flavoured Volva water, and I remember that because it tasted spicy and chemical-like, as if I was chowing down on one of those air-freshener pills you see in urinals, like the ones Melman the giraffe from the animated film Madagascar eats.
Anyway, however you choose to ingest this sublime sexy substance, you have to earn the unequivocal bliss that we mates promise you’ll be feeling when you take it. What I’m talking about now is a sensation called a come up.
However you choose to ingest this sexy substance, you have to earn the
Anonymous
unequivocal bliss that we mates promise you’ll be feeling when you take it.
To access the high, you have to physiologically rise to the occasion. You have to see your way through the sickness to get to the part that feels good. For me, it slowly rises from my chest, in my cheeks, and it just sits there, throbbing. It’s like a weight slowly sneaking its way around your body, and you’re trapped between wanting to stand up and move around and wanting to sit down. You feel anxious so you wanna dance, but fucking depressed so you stay seated. You feel angry, you feel really ratty, you feel sad, but you also feel anticipatory, and your breathing gets a bit deeper.
When you’re in the proper throes of this shit, you feel so depressed, you hate everyone and, if you bang Mandy out as much as I did when I was doing it, no matter how many times you’ve been through the come up, you never know if you will break out of that sensation for the night.
It feels like you’re teetering on a ledge – either you come up or you don’t – and you’re trapped feeling like shit for the whole night until it wears off.
2. The High
So, you’ve taken Mandy. There’s you and there’s the rest of the world. You can’t talk and you can’t really focus on anything happening around you at this rave you’re at but trying to get through this feeling.
Suddenly, your mate spills his drink down the back of someone in front of him and this person calls him a stupid cunt and you think it’s funny, really funny, and you come to the realisation that your mate is cute and he’s really silly and he couldn’t hurt a fly and the man in front of him is calling him names but it’s the most hilarious thing you’ve ever come across. You look around and everyone is having the best fucking time on earth, everyone is meant to be there in that exact moment, and your breathing gets shallow but deep at the same time.
With every inhale, this buzzing feeling emanates from behind your eyes and the beat from the DJ infects you. Whoa, you get this mad, incredible rush and this excitement and this euphoria and you just feel so much love for everyone. That’s ecstasy, innit?
You’re just consumed by this feeling like peace, but it’s not peace at all, you’re relaxed but wide awake. You start chewing, your jaw swings and you’re breathing funny. The music sounds so good and it’s fucking wicked. You are UP, baby.
You spend the rest of the night proclaiming your undying love for everyone, unprovoked, and nothing feels like it can go wrong in that moment. The air tastes and feels so fresh in your lungs. Your eyes are so wide – it’s the most fantastic feeling – and you cannot stop dancing to those house tunes being played in front of the gaff.
I really miss that feeling, the pure energy and happiness. Especially when there’s a beat and you feel community with those around you who are on the same shit. There’s nothing like it. But the funny thing about that is, obviously, all good things must come to an end.
Normally, when you start taking Mandy, you can enjoy the first few gos without neurochemical consequence. The first time is really good and the second time’s really good, but not quite as good, but really good still. The third time’s not as good as the second and so on it goes. You still get some beautiful peaks and highs but it’s never the same, and the drug’s effects usually last up to six hours. That rush of blood to your head feels so good until it doesn’t, and you get depressed.
That’s what happened to me.
3. The Come Down
Once the party’s over, you return to normal.
For example, it’s like when you go outside to the smoker’s area and realise that you’ve run out of cigarettes. Earlier in the night, that wouldn’t have been a problem because you would adoringly ask the stranger next to you for one and they’d oblige. This time, though, that realisation just leaves an empty feeling in your chest instead. It’s a small and sudden dip in the vibe, a little shift from a default positive response to a negative one, that brings you down from the high. The music becomes repulsive, and your skin feels like sandpaper. Your mate who is banging on about some shite is now insufferable.
It might sound as though you’re lucid during this come down but you’re not; you’re a zombie.
If coming up feels as though you’re emerging from the sea towards the sky, the come down is you sinking from your position way up there, down, down, down, until you crash into the sea, into the murky depths of depression.
Anonymous
It should take a few days to feel like yourself again but that wasn’t my experience after abusing Mandy for so long. When you use MDMA, your muscles can dangerously overheat and eventually break down, it can damage vital organs and it can lead to death.
I would wake up sober, sure, but feeling empty. Sullen, stuck behind a wall with the whole world cracking on on the other side.
If coming up feels as though you’re emerging from the sea towards the sky, the come down is you sinking from your position way up there, down, down, down, until you crash into the sea, into the murky depths of depression. And when the high equalises, you’re back in your boat on the surface of the sea. The bigger the rise, the bigger the fall, and it took me a while to feel solid ground the last time I took the drug. I sobered up, but any positive thoughts I had were no longer convincing and my life lost all its lustre. I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I felt this way for years.
I can’t imagine any night out worth going through that again.
“
In the summer of 2022, I gave “Burning Man” a whole new meaning. Although, instead of soaking up the sun at the famed American festival, I found myself selling not-so-Smart Whip to a crowd of gas-heads in a Welsh forest – and nearly needing a skin graft for it. My name’s Tia, fabulous POWDER writer and your friendly neighbourhood burn dealer.
It was June 2022.
The academic year had just finished, the sweet smell of summer was in the air, and around twenty of my closest friends and I had escaped to South Wales to sesh the weekend away at Gottwood Festival, an electronic music festival advertised as a “mystical little party…hidden in the depths of the Welsh forest.”
Two days after we arrived, the energy was still ecstatic, the good vibes completely and utterly contagious, setting the tone for a summer 2022 that was going to be one for the books.
On our second to last night, a Saturday, we ran into a cheery Northerner selling Smart Whips – canisters full of nitrous oxide that are usually used to fill a balloon, which is then inhaled. We thought: ‘What are the chances of getting hold of laughing gas in the middle of the Welsh woods?’ so we, of course, bought as many as we could afford. At £80 a tank, the prices were double the standard in London – we’d been monopolised.
But my intoxicated self saw an opportunity to make my money back and, if I was lucky, net a profit. I knew if I was dumb enough to spend £160 on two canisters, other festival goers would be too, so I decided to sell three balloons for £20.
I laughed as the crowds gathered around, practically throwing cash in my face, desperate to get hold of a balloon.
That afternoon, security circled the grassy auditoriums in front of the various stages, meaning I had to be discreet. I had the Smart Whip wedged down the left side of my leggings, with my North Face waterproof hiding it; a combination of ecstasy, alcohol and nitrous numbing my body, I was completely oblivious to the extreme freeze that was burning my hip. It was only three hours later – when the gas was all out – that I felt a huge lump and blazing pain on my left side.
I’m a tough-tittied party girl, so I wasn’t going to let what I thought was a small burn ruin my night. I dance the night and the pain away…
The next morning, I woke up in my tent, sweaty and in complete agony, to find my hip was awfully blistered and raw. In a sudden panic, I woke my best friend, passed out next to me, and she moved like lightning when she saw the severity of my hip. We ran straight to the paramedics’ tent.
A combination of ecstasy, alcohol and nitrous numbing my body, I was completely oblivious to the extreme freeze that was burning my hip.
Tia Brown
The paramedic was wary of popping the blisters in case of scarring, so he bandaged the burn instead. I was presented with two options: travel home to London alone a day early, or ride out the last night at the most magical festival I’d ever been to. Obviously, I chose the latter.
However, in the 24 hours that followed, my hip continued to flare and there was liquid oozing through the bandage. The smell was awful, and I couldn’t even shower or clean it due to the risk of infection. My weekend in Wales was ready to end and all I could think about was getting home to the advice of my medical-practitioner mum. My friend made sure I was driven home because there was no way I was getting on a packed train to London feeling – and smelling – the way I did.
Within seconds of my mum seeing the burn, we were off to A&E.
It’s always a drag hanging out in waiting rooms; but that day felt extra draining. There’s no doubt it was the combination of a massive comedown and the anxiety that I might’ve permanently scarred my body selling not-so-fucking-Smart Whips. It was at that moment I vowed to never touch them again.
I was finally seen by an A&E nurse after hours of waiting and she took pictures of the burn to send to a specialist before treating it. It felt like my leg had been dipped in the River Styx.
The whole circumference of the burn had to be bladed off with a scalpel, leaving raw flesh where the burn used to be. This was to avoid any infection. Ironically, gas-and-air was provided, and many hours, tears and broken sleeps later, my burn was smothered in medicated Manuka honey and I was sent home.
The following month was crucial to my healing. I didn’t smoke, I didn’t leave the house except when I was going to the hospital, I ordered every vitamin under the sun and I hibernated. Not exactly how I anticipated spending my first month of the summer.
The heatwave in London that year didn’t make it any easier either; I couldn’t swim nor sunbathe. I spent the time in my bedroom with my Argos fan on full blast binge-watching Desperate Housewives for the hundredth time.
I’ve never wished I could turn back time more. I hated the thought of laughing gas and I was cross with myself even more for being so silly to sell it. I’ve lived to see another day though: the burn healed magically in the weeks that came with hardly even a scar to show for it. It seems justice, for me, was kind.
What's the story behind your scariest scar? Drop us a DM (@pwdrzine) and you could be featured in our first-person series.