I once wrote a column about ‘middle aged men in nightclubs’ which, as regular readers will be aware, resulted in my mug being the world’s number one Google image result for ‘middle aged man’.

I am therefore loath to write another column about ‘nightclubs’ as I am wary of my picture showing up when searching for ‘old clubbers,’ but for you, dear reader, it is a risk I am willing to take…

I have not ‘clubbed’ since my twenties. Yes, I have graced clubs since then, but they were all, except when abroad for some strange reason, visits undertaken under coercion. It’s not an environment I enjoy and, if I’m honest, I never really did. It’s much like the band ‘U2’ where you feel the need to pretend you enjoy them, even though you don’t as everyone else seems to and you have no wish to be an outlier.

As a teen/ twenty something I would frequent, weekly, the numerous clubs around the mean streets of Hastings. Now, there seems to be only one still standing, the Crypt, which, now as then, is located in a cave underneath a town centre street. Back then you couldn’t lean against a wall as your clothes would soon smell of urine or, if you were lucky, stagnant green water, as the Goths mixed with the slightly obscure as we danced cheek to jowl in a crowded, sweaty mosh pit of a club which would have been disastrous had there been a fire. Up and coming acts would play there as would those whose stars were on the wane. I remember one night expecting a bit of Depeche Mode to be met instead with Duncan from Blue who played his ‘hits.’ Thankfully, after that five minutes was over, normal service resumed.

A different demographic could be found at ‘JR’s,’ located in the Queens Hotel, once owned by the Krays. This was more your ‘edgy’ club where, if you braved the bouncers who were out for violence, you would be granted entry to find legions of snarling young men who were looking for somewhere to place the knives they often had secreted about their person. As such, with its reputation, the women folk were generally scared off, so the aggressive males would become even more aggressive when they realised that they outnumbered the ladies 10-1 so they would either fight over said females, scrap with each other, or give up and take a walk in the biting wind along the seafront to ‘Saturdays’.

Now Saturdays was, how should I describe it? the ‘blue riband’ poster boy of Hastings clubland. Entering through a small doorway, again past aggressive bouncers who had been sacked by JR’s for overt violence, you would have to clamber up the steep stairs inside the main door. Many didn’t make it. I witnessed a few lose their footing and unceremoniously end up in a crumpled heap at the bottom of said stairs before the bouncers would helpfully eject them out into the cold or, if you had caused trouble in the club, they would accidentally push you down the stairs to make an even swifter exit.

Tuesday nights were the highlight with ‘10p a pint night’ which did exactly what it said on the tin. Feeling like a Lord, I would gleefully rock up at a random girls table with 12 pints of lager as I pretended to be the ‘don’ despite them being aware it was ten pence a pint and them preferring a vastly more expensive Smirnoff mule instead.

Saturdays started to go down market, if that was possible, when they renamed it G-Spot (I’m not kidding). It was always a running joke that we could finally find it, but once the joke had worn out, so did the novelty of the club that never moved with the times and sadly, it was burnt to the ground last year and the G-spot will never again be found.

Finally, we had ‘Dennies’ which was akin to the Bedouin bar in Star Wars. You would take your life into your own hands walking in there, located opposite the town centre multi-storey car park. As big as a large living room, it was mirrored and frequented by ratty looking chaps and big, tattooed, women with sweat gland issues who would sexually assault you should you walk within a metre of them.

But alas, now, they are all gone (bar the Crypt) to be replaced instead with the more palatable café culture style late night licence bars that litter, particularly the old town. From clubbing all night and being sick in a doorway to waking up with your head in a flower pot in someone’s hallway on a council estate on the other side of town, nowadays the kids are likely to sip a Bud Light and discuss the licensing issues as the neighbours above shout abuse out the window to keep the noise down, despite having moved above a late night bar.

Although I have no wish to repeat it, the local clubs gave us all a number of stories to tell and I for one am sad they have gone and, maybe, one day, I may go on a hunt to find the modern day G-Spot and prove I am the oldest swinger in town…

  • Brett Ellis is a teacher