Sunday, 11 December 2011

The Worst Club In London To Take Your Boyfriend To?

By Sophie Marie Atkinson.

“Darling, are you sure you should be taking a video of that with your work Blackberry?”

Not exactly the words I thought I’d be uttering on a romantic night out with my other half. Only, this wasn’t the romantic night out that I had banked on when I first agreed to visit Supperclub in Notting Hill.

I imagined a ‘supperclub’ would be an intimate gathering with select individuals, good food and fine wine, not topless women galore, a gravity-defying professional hula-hooper, pole dancers who put my Body Pump-honed figure to absolute shame, and a woman covered in gaffer tape with music inexplicably playing out of her. Needless to say, my boyfriend was over the frickin’ moon.

Supperclub, the eclectic Dutch concept venue that arrived in London in 2009 via Amsterdam, LA, San Francisco and Istanbul, bills itself as a ‘feast for all the senses.’ And this it certainly is. I’m debating sending Fluid my partner’s physio bill for the whiplash he incurred turning his head every 30 seconds in an attempt to seek out the latest spectacle.

When I wasn’t chasing my boyfriend around the club like a parent with a five-year-old on a terrifyingly fast scooter, we reclined on the large sofa-beds, enjoyed the electro-house music pumping out of the speakers, and supped on complimentary cocktails and Champagne whilst admiring the Beautiful People around us.

The occasion was Supperclub’s 2nd anniversary and I got the feeling that this is truly a West London Place to be Seen™. The club, which looks like an aircraft hangar and contains, ironically, considering the debauchery that lurks inside, only the purest and whitest decor, is also famed for its fine dining experiences. While I wasn’t lucky enough to sample everything on this particular night, we did get to try a few of the delicate canapés (fish and chips in a cone are delicate, right?) handed to us by people dressed in white sheets with face paint to match; obviously.

As we left [read: as I dragged my boyfriend, kicking and screaming, out the door so we could make the last tube home] the co-owners of Supperclub were onstage dancing in orange boilersuits. Which pretty much sums up the night: totally bizarre. If only it hadn’t been a school night. Not that this seemed to be deterring the West London revellers that we left behind.

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