Hip, on the other hand, is eternal.' OK, his bar is hip. 'I hate the word "cool",' he says sipping his coffee on a corner table. I get talking to the owner, Gerry O'Boyle, though I feel a bit like a schoolgirl when I tell him his bar is cool. Their hair is everything from combed-over to platinum-bright, expensive haircuts and pounds 4 barbershop jobs. It's almost like a lively family party, if only you had fabulously interesting relatives who argued passionately about music and politics instead of bitching at each other. The crowd are a mix of slovenly and sassy Guinness drinkers and roll-up smokers, ranging from their twenties to seventies. Not strictly dance tunes, but music I love. The jukebox is packed with classics from the likes of the Stones, Etta James and Nirvana.
![kabaret barman kabaret barman](https://lekabaret.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/03/KABARET2019-16.jpg)
#KABARET BARMAN CRACK#
The Boogaloo is not the crack den I had naively expected, but somewhere with the feel of a local pub but the cool factor of the best bar imaginable. Opened three years ago, it is legendary for its famous party-hard patrons: Kate Moss, Pete Doherty and the tired-toothed Shane MacGowan. I wear my new brown leaf-decorated dress and head for the Boogaloo in Highgate, north London. When we climb back to the cool air of the street there is steam coming off my face. Our strength renewed, we sweat up a disco storm and don't leave until 3am. About this time, the hummus and bread my sister Chen ordered floats above the crowd, held high by the weaving waitress. First they belly- dance to Arabian strings, which I am happy to sit out, then sometime after midnight the music switches to the Jackson 5. Though the cushions and apple-scented hookah pipes give it a laid-back feel, between the low tables people are up and moving, shamelessly. 'Wanna dance? It's pounds 3.' I pick my way down tiled steps to the underground drinking den. 'Allo,' smiles the portly owner, shirt buttons straining. Back in Soho on Saturday night I am waved into a shabby Moroccan restaurant, Maison Touaregue, on Greek Street. Somewhere you can dance like no one's watching and drink without asking your bank manager's permission.įor the next seven days, I hit the post-pub streets. And no, I don't want to play bartender for her all night.'īearing in mind these requests for time-bending, queue-free clubs with a healthy selection of attractive dancefloor companions, I make a few ground rules of my own. Whoever I speak to I've heard their vacuous chat before. 'You know, when they've all got the same hair, clothes and make-up, even the same bodies. And what about sex appeal? 'I can't stand identikit women,' says Leon, who works in radio. She reckons a queue outside is a sure sign the place has an ego. 'So many times I've staggered out thinking I've got ringing in my ears, but in fact the noise is birds singing.' According to Caroline, a 30-something solicitor whose strict organic diet is consistently hampered by a passion for cheap vodka, it's a venue so special and hidden it feels like a guilty secret. So what's the secret of a good club, one that leaves you dizzy well after the weekend? 'In my favourite place, time actually warps,' says James, a social worker.
![kabaret barman kabaret barman](https://i.4wzk.pl/gallery/583/49034_1_main.jpg)
The night was supposed to be fun, but it just made us feel self-conscious and stupid. On the night bus home, sat next to a woman who reeks of failure, like me, I make it my mission to take the battle out of dancing. Sporting a pair of pinching three-inch heels, I wish she'd shut up and give me her shoes. My friend Anna apologises for having worn trainers and won't listen when we assure her they look cool. I feel embarrassed of the bald tear on my handbag from where it caught in the front wheel of my bicycle.
![kabaret barman kabaret barman](https://fylmy.pl/wp-content/uploads/2018/02/hqdefault-267.jpg)
We try our luck at two other clubs, but they are all guarded by scary sneers. Could we add our names now and come in? Doorbitch doesn't answer. But my friends and I are ignored by bouncers and looked up and down by PR girls wielding clipboards, patrolling their portals like Nazi prison guards. Eleven pm last Friday night: I walk the streets of Soho, London, feeling disco-hungry. Fast-forward 10 years and the idea of begging to get into a club makes me feel old. I wasn't just an underage drinker then but also naive, keen, borderline desperate.
![kabaret barman kabaret barman](https://assets.planujemywesele.pl/files/media/visuals/389271/4f195bf7b31dca71a65ea3e056ab357b.jpeg)
All dressed up with fake ID, feeling privileged to queue in the freezing cold outside a club, trying to make sweet eyes at mean-faced bouncers just to get in and dance.