Farewell to the Gallery

I spent many Friday nights down at Turnmills in Clerkenwell back in the day (and many Saturdays too). The Gallery on Fridays was my local, a place where I could pop down "for a quiet one" and then end up rolling out of the door at eight o'clock in the morning having danced and laughed my arse off all night. In 2000, I moved to Sheffield and then it was a bit of a slog to get back down for the evening. More's the pity.

Now the Newmans have sold up and are moving out, so last Friday (Good Friday, of course) would be the last ever Gallery at Turnmills. And it was the best night I've been to in seven years. The line-up was an old skool special: Seb Fonatine, Tall Paul, Sister Bliss, Judge Jules and in the back room, Alex and Brandon and even Clockwork Orange's Andy Manston for good measure.

It was busy, but thankfully, not ridiculously rammed. I recognised some old faces, and even got chatting to a few new people - something that just doesn't really happen in other clubs in London. I wasn't the oldest person in there, in fact I felt positively sprightly, as I whooped and cheered on the dancefloor (Paul played the instrumental of 'Toca Me' and me and my friends nearly cried). I broke into the DJ booth when Jules was on for old times' sake, drank his champagne and made off with half a bottle of his vodka. I wore a silly mask. I harrassed Alex P... I felt ten years younger and we all wondered what it would take to make a night as good as this again.

Then I spent the rest of the Easter weekend recovering. My god, I felt like I'd been mangled in an industrial accident. Every muscle in my body ached, I slept more than twelve hours a day, and spent the rest of them lying under a duvet on the sofa. I lost my voice. For three days. And now, four days later, I've got a stinking cold. But it was so worth it.

The only downer about the night was that promoter Danny Newman missed it through illness. So, wishing you well, Danny. Get well soon.