On A Friday Night

Partygoers In Long Street, Cape Town.

It was a tepidly warm Friday evening, and I was knocking back copious amounts of chilled Ken Forresters, as one is prone to do on tepidly warm Friday evenings.

The evening was going well - I later planned on consuming vast amounts of Flings (baked, not fried), finishing another bottle of Chenin Blanc, whilst watching a light hearted comedy - preferably one starring the reliable actor Mark Ruffalo.

Just then the lights went out, leading to a great wailing and gnashing of teeth. Moving swiftly with all the nimbleness of an elegant gazelle, I managed to fend off the initial attack by The Girlfriend, who somewhat irrationally accused me of not paying the electricity bill.

“But Eskom didn’t advertise any load shedding,” was her bizarre reasoning, as if this had previously prevented the electricity giant from pissing on our dreams.

With no power at The HQ, and The Girlfriend refusing to sleep with me, we decided to head down to Long Street with The Project Manager and Kim. Funnily enough, not much was happening down there either, and so we moved from one disappointing venue to the next, bamboozling poor bar staff who were now forced to work out the price of four R12 beverages in their heads, obviously causing it to explode.

Their heads. Not the beverages.

Things were looking desperate, we had just caused the death of our third barman, and we were now rather bored with it all. Just then we received an important phone call, as one often does at a critical point in the movie plot, when things are looking dire.

News filtered through of a club armed with a generator - where music and intelligent lighting awaited us - and so we quickly dashed into the automobile, like hungry fat kids looking for a slice of chocolate cake.

In a hazy blur of fast driving, sharp turns and knocking over a pesky vagrant or two, we ended up at a strange warehouse. Staggering up the stairs, I was greeted to a rather strange party consisting of electro music, bad fashion and even worse dancing. The penny dropped - this was an 80’s party.

What You Might Wear At An 80s Party.

Content that this was MY scene, I jumped in with both feet, sending a poor patron flying across the dancefloor with foot prints all over her leopard-skinned ass.

Jamming to the likes of The Bangles and The Pet Shop Boys, we spent the rest of the night at this club called The Assembly, which apparently has many a themed party. The venue is quite spacious for the Cape Town scene, where most clubs are usually the size of a UK 10 shoe box.

At the Assembly, the large dancefloor easily allowed me to do my famous chicken dancing routine, whilst the others hid in one of the many dark corners of the club, pretending that they didn’t know me. To cut a medium-sized story short, the night sailed by, like a drunken yachtsman taking his boat for a joyride through the Waterfront harbour.

I eventually arrived home at an ungodly hour, felt my way to the bedroom using Braille, and collapsed in an exhausted heap. I awoke the next morning to find a bottle of Hansa Marzen Gold wedged in my mouth, which merely confirmed the awesome night that was CLEARLY had by all.

So next time you’re in town, and Eskom decides to take a wee in your glass of sparkling mineral water, thus COMPLETELY spoiling it for you, pay a visit to The Assembly, which seems to be immune to their evil ways.

Pay a visit to their (admittedly kak looking) website at www.theassembly.co.za

Bood Gye.

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