Neo Cro-magnon

Do you know those websites that sell vouchers? full of adds and the word free splattered all over the screen?

I always feared them, always closing the browser before my eyeballs retained enough information so even the bright colours and hypnotic patterns wouldn’t reach my brain; thinking that just by looking at the website, my computer could burn and my bank account support the family of some hidden gang leader from a remote part of the unknown world.

But I wouldn’t be writing this post should I’ve not championed my fear and faced with bravery my nemesis.

I bought a voucher on MyCityDeal.

Blame it on ‘midweek crisis‘ if you want, but we have all reached a moment where if a little window chat flashing at the bottom of the screen becomes the highlight of the week, your brain really is prepared to accept anything; running for mayor, learn to play the violin, give away all your clothes, buy a voucher from an always feared and loathed website… anything as long as you get a bit of conversation to help you forget how terribly pointless you are.

So I receive the message: “click on the link, buy the voucher and we can both go” she said knowing full well of my emotional vulnerability.

It was a voucher to go to a place known as “Supperclub” a restaurant that is not a restaurant, but neither it is a bar, nor a pub or the Large Hadron Collider.

It’s the sort of place someone from Shoreditch would introduce you to, saying something like: “it is an experience” while rolling its eyes (people from Shoreditch don’t have any defined gender, they are mutants from the future that will bring peace on earth once we accept that our sense of fashion is insulting the overlords of the universe)

You go there, lay back on some furniture from A Clockwork Orange and eat while uber humans perform exotic petulant routines for your amusement.

Thanks to the voucher, the whole “experience” cost £17 instead of £70. I can now believe and trust in some of those colour proyecting webs.

A few hours before going to the place, I decided to check on the internet some reviews about this “Supperclub”.

If the whole experience was already terrifyingly exciting for me, it was about to get Super Saiyan.

Dozens of people left terrible reviews of the place, complaining about anything “Supperclub” related. From the food to the staff to the actual type of customers.

Well, I thought, I’m not really paying for this. If it is that bad, I will just run away.

We walked there (I live in the area) and I was proudly wearing my Star Wars t-shirt as my emotional shield.

Many people compare it to the one in Amsterdam (the original one apparently) and they said it is not as good by a mile; that it lacks European etiquette or something, I’m definitely not an expert on the subject. Never been to any other supperclub so I can’t compare.

A very friendly black man with a green beard, wearing blue trousers met us at the entrance, took our jackets, and showed us around the place. There’s a bar all red, some stairs to go to a cage on the outside that hangs above some tube tracks for the smokers to socialize and then the doors to the white area, where the sofa/beds are together with the DJ.

The cage thing was full of girls smoking, which proves my theory that smoking has become a girly thing. Don’t know many blokes who smoke now to be honest (apart from old farts) They were smoking, and I was there holding my friend’s glass wearing my Star Wars t-shirt.

Once they take you to your table, they ask you whether you eat meat or if you lie to yourself to prove you’re better than the rest.

I’ve tried many times, but it is a herculean effort for me, so I ordered meat.

There’s no menu, that’s the only choice. You will be served whatever the chef feels like cooking that night. I wonder if they allow the cook to work with any serious type of mental depression. It would be great if one day people are served shit on a white squared plate, with a slice of lemon and touch of ice.

Between courses, someone will perform something in the middle of the room while a maniac takes 500 pictures per second of the performer’s ass. After that, the lights change, so instead of being and all purple room, you’re sitting now in Avatar where everything is blue and very tall skinny people with feline qualities walk around you far enough to avoid your hand touching them.

At some point, we left.

I am clearly not the target audience for the place, but contrary to the opinion of the more opinionated and restaurant savvy people of London, I did have a good time.

Mind you it only cost me £17 and a Star Wars t-shirt.