The Roxy Club and Shay Grrrr Vara

Most clubs weren't expensive to get in. The Roxy Club was expensive. I didn't know why until I saw this clip on uTube (see below). It was over one pound fifty pence to get in. I think you had to be a member. You came in the door and there was a pool table. And you went down a rickety staircase. The "stage" was under the staircase. There was a bar. There were toilets where you went to get the rest of your outfit on, a drink from someone who had brought a bottle of something in, some more safety pins pinned in your outfit, more eyeliner, a haircut like one of the punters if you didn't like yours, and later on in the evening a dunking in a sink for a coating of sugar water on your mohican to stop it falling over. You might even spend a penny. Apparently the "tired" people sleeping on the floor had bought heroin in there. I had no idea. I heard a welsh accent once and assumed they were tired from their train trip to London. You might be able to use to the loo but you might not because people might be shagging in there. I always thought the worst bit was when Don Letts got this really bright spotlight and shined it into the crowd. He was the DJ. I found out later, of course, that he was filming. But it was a bit bright for me. History buffs might like to know that The Roxy was in the same space as an underground (literally) gay (remember when being gay was something secret?) disco with a name that sounded like Shag A Rama's that was a play on the name Che Gerr Vara who was that handsome Cuban bloke on a t-shirt that you could buy in the hippie market bit of High Street Kensington. I didn't know who he was. But I knew he was a revolutionary. Punks liked revolutionaries. Revolutions. Not wearing flares was being revolutionary. Patti Smith sang about revolutions. Revolooooootions. oops. I digress. Here is Andy, the owner of The Roxy: