Fuck Time Out: Cheapskates
By Alice Austin
It was a pre-iPhone problem. Even though we went every week, we could never remember where it was. Those Rubik’s Cube Soho streets bamboozled us every time. But eventually, after 15 – 20 minutes of wandering, turning in circles, bumping into each other so cans of K sloshed onto our hands, we’d turn the correct corner and see the neon sign in the distance. The sign said ‘Moonlighting’ but I guess none of us ever read it because we always called it Cheapskates. There would be a short line outside at 11pm on a Wednesday. Clusters of boys in patterned Topman T shirts and gaggles of girls in mini-dresses and platforms, looking way too nice for the establishment they’re about to enter.
Cheapskates was a student night hosted every Wednesday. Entrance was £3 – absolute bargain – but that wasn’t the main attraction.
The queue would move quickly, the bouncers only glancing at IDs, choosing not to examine too closely. Once past security we’d head to the sticky counter, pay our £3 entry then totter down the steep stairs, sober enough to manoeuvre them unscathed (for now).
The smell would hit on the fifth step. The smoking ban had been in place for two years but the club still smelt of warm ashtray and armpit, verifying the same sticky, alcohol-infused air had been regurgitated for the lifespan of a hamster.
If it was winter we’d pay 50p to put our Topshop pea coats in the cloakroom and head to the bar to take full advantage of the main attraction i.e. the air-punchingly reasonable drinks prices. £1 for a single, £2 for a double and so on (the bar staff let you multiply exponentially). Once I made the error of ordering a quadruple vodka and cranberry. The drink was barely diluted, tinged a dusty pink like a fine rosé, and as soon as I took a gulp I barked up some vomit behind a bar stool. No one noticed. I never even mentioned it.
Rumour has it Moonlighting (the club that hosted Cheapskates) used to be a strip bar – which made sense. The red Wetherspoons print carpet was thick and sticky. The walls were covered in strips of cheap mirror and stripper poles were placed at awkward points around the room, too close to the walls to bust any moves but serving an important purpose nonetheless: to remind us that we’re grown-up and debaucherous and totally at liberty to get drunk out of our goddamn minds.
When I was going to Cheapskates The Klaxons were a thing and Facebook wasn’t. We’d scream to the opening notes of Mr Brightside and make mini mosh-pits to the choruses of Fratellis. We’d roll our eyes at Wonderwall then throw our arms around each other to make one collective swaying scrum, because maybeeeeee. MySpace was on its way out, as were Britney’s marbles, and I’d just about got over my obsession with Funeral for a Friend and moved on to The Cribs.
An outwardly friendly woman who inwardly loathed us would sit at the entrance to the toilets offering us lollipops and chewing gum and tampons and condoms, handing us loo roll, demanding payment whether we wanted to or not.
Once I was queuing behind a girl who reminded me of someone. “Holy shit,” I said to her, drunk off triple vodkas and cranberry. “You look just like Emily from Big Brother.”
If there was one person in the world you did not want to look like that summer, it was Emily from Big Brother. Firstly she was annoying – she claimed to be an ‘indie girl’ which pissed me off (too close to the bone). But the main reason was she’d been kicked out the house for being racist. The worst kind of racist, too. An entitled ‘I was only joking, why are you overreacting’ racist.
“Oh man,” I said to the girl in front of me. “The last person you want to look like is Emily from Big Brother!!”
She turned to face me. She didn’t have to say it. I looked at my hands.
“Ooooshh fuuuuuck.” I said. “Unlucky…”
She paid her £1, took the loo roll and went to take a slash.
Of course Moonlighting is closed now. It’s a Be At One, obviously. But the developers can’t take away our memories. Or the fact that we knew a London where penniless 16 – 20 year olds could truly act out. This was our space to test the very limits of our alcohol consumption and come face to face with the exact vodka measurements that would lead to barking up some vomit. It was a safe haven for whoever wanted to get fucked up beyond belief on a Wednesday to get fuck up beyond belief on a Wednesday. And everybody was welcome. Yes, that’s right – even Emily from Big Brother.
