Dirty Fun

I know what’s on everyone’s mind. It’s not the economical crisis that makes us hold onto our jobs for dear life or even the ever-expanding Swine flu pandemic but truly where to locate our favourite columnist – namely yours faithful - on Thursday nights. Well, the time has come… and the answer is (drum rolls): the Dirty Club on calle Aduyana (Metro: Gran Via/ Sol - www.myspace.com/dirtyclubmadrid). 

Evidently, I didn’t find this haven of pop–indie music by my lonesome rummaging the streets of Madrid for the next best thing; I was brought there, unwillingly. 

Let’s face it, on Thursday nights after having spent a whole week teaching Rugrats the Present Simple for the millionth time, all I really want to do is lie down in front of a Doctor Who rerun. But my darling F.H. (remember her?) wouldn’t take no for an answer and she had some convincing arguments: she knew the doorman (free entrance), the cloakroom clerk (free cloakroom – don’t mock it! A quid is a quid!) and the bartender (free drinks)…hum, tempting!   

But then I remembered where she took me last: LL on calle Pelayo (Metro: Chueca).

The tiny bar crowded by all the sizes and shapes our community has to offer in the midst of which a lost waiter kept shouting to make way “un pasillo por favor! UN PASILLO!” had a creepy light-bowl free bathroom, some seriously overpriced beers (5 Euros for bottled beer! What?) and centre stage (well, in the corner) a jewel: a real life I-make-a-living-out-of-this drag queen doing her thing. She sang, well she moved her lips convincingly enough to the greatest, most iconic gay songs ever-sung and made jokes: “What does an Ecuadorian do when he’s cold? He sits next to the heater. What does he do when it gets colder? He turns it on”. What do you mean you’re not laughing? 

In truth, it had been quite the experience and I did shamefully enjoy myself. So yet once more, I let F.H drag me to some unknown, probably run-down club. To my surprise, the club looked amazing. The entrance had a light-show ceiling that resembled the floor of this year’s Eurovision venue and the place in its labyrinthesque design, with convenient alcoves, colons and a grand total of 3 bars, had everything I could wish for. Something did strike me as odd though. The 80’s movement, which I thought long dead, was alive and kicking, huh? 

To this day, every time I go, I feel like I’ve stepped into the Tardis and travelled through time to the land of bright colours, tight trousers and tucked-in tank-tops in shorts. Well, as The Doctor would say: Allons-y…