By Christian Rose-Day.
There are several ways to celebrate your 1st birthday: squeal demands; vomit up breast milk; urinate on family members; ignore new toys in favour of the box they came in; smash Mum’s favourite thingie; stare uncomfortably at other little people (new friends, apparently); and maybe crawl into Kitty’s day-old litter. My 1st birthday mainly consisted of eating, drinking, crying, and puking over myself. Ooooooh how things have changed. Yeh, hmmm, right, anyway, so, Dutch-imported bar-cum-club-cum-restaurant-cum-adult-play-centre, Supperclub in west London, this week celebrated its inaugural year of London residence and I wholeheartedly admit that the Supperclub 1st birthday party was by far the best experience I’ve ever had under a motorway (although the A40 Westway isn’t technically a motorway).
When we arrived, the gathered crowd of journalists and beautiful people were huddled together in the dark, broody light of only the bar. They seemed happy enough though, especially as they were warm and sipping on complimentary champagne and cocktails. After a while, Richard Strauss’s Also Sprach Zarathustra (you know the one that Kubrick expertly chose for the opening credits of 2001: A Space Odyssey) was played out and the doors to the main room were pulled back.
Having never been to Supperclub before, I was intrigued to find out what all the fuss was about. Split into two levels - dance floor and viewing balcony - the main room is bright white and the edges are furnished with large bed-sofas. My music-loving +1 companion remarked how impressed he was with the speaker system. He then also gazed around the room at the clientele before mentioning, “and a nice mixture of talent too”.
The theme for the evening was either gluttony or indulgence, or both; everything seemed to revolve around extreme hedonism. The staff were all decked out in white with white face paint to match, two gorgeous masseuses wore white as they manipulated flesh on the beds, whilst the ring leader strutted about in his top hat. Various androgynous beings drifted throughout the melee wearing outfits that were suggestive and engaging: burlesque corsets; skimpy pants; capes; towers of orange hair; and a Union Jack all-in-one skirt and gimp mask, like Ginger Spice multiplied by Scary Spice.
Throughout the night we were treated to a sophisticated freak show of performance acts: an acrobatic balancing man (ripped as a muthafunsta); a lip-synch drag king; and one act that extracted the following comment from my companion - “That was just wrong, man!”. Some kind of pig-man-woman took to the stage wearing a check tweed jacket and britches, under which he/she wore an apron and frilly knickers. After downing a whole bottle of wine, he/she swallowed fire, pulled a string of sausages from the front of his/her knickers, and then a poo-covered tail from the rear, before promptly eating it. Or, at least, it certainly looked that way.
The show got even more mental when a peroxide blonde in the chiffoniest of chiffon gowns started inserting needles through the flesh on her stomach, before using said needles to squirt ink onto a white canvas on the floor. The closing part of her eye-opener involved a knife tearing at the crotch part of her tights and a decent amount of simulated (I hope) blood gushing from her nether regions. The final colourful canvas was then hung up for everyone to see. My guest refused to call it a work of art. I reminded him that art was as much about the journey as it was the destination, a sentiment I’m fairly sure the crew at Supperclub would share with me.
I liked how Supperclub went just a little too far with their acts. Neither myself or my guest felt entirely comfortable whilst we were there, but we couldn’t deny we had a great time.
Most people, like us, were ignoring the standard House playlist that the capable DJ was offering because they were more drawn to what to was going on around them. I met a girl up on the balcony - who, from a distance, I thought was an ex of mine, but thankfully wasn’t - who advised me to pick up a glass of the champagne and a glass of the pink vodka-based cocktail that were being given away at the bar and to mix them together. She’d apparently had four of these home-brews by the time we spoke. She was also convinced that the stunning, tall woman in the very, very short skirt who’d help to kick the proceedings off earlier on stage was actually an ex-man. I still have no idea if she was right or just drunk.
‘Greed Ain’t Going Nowhere’ - that was the phrase scribed across a beautifully imaginative mural on the staircase leading to the facilities upstairs. I couldn’t have put it better myself. And for all the 1-year-olds reading this, there’s a valuable life lesson for you to learn there.