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Vauxhall

from Cathy (cathyvpreece@aol.com)

Times

February 21, 2003

Acres of pleasure

By Amy Lamé

WHEN GOD mapped out London, Vauxhall got the fuzzy end of the lollipop. It’s a big mess, with the busiest intersection in the capital and gridlocked traffic thanks to the seemingly permanent roadworks. People don’t meander leisurely in Vauxhall, it is not a hospitable area — rubbish swirls on the streets, discarded lager cans clog the gutters. This gateway to South London is a clutch of office blocks, council estates, Victorian conversions and posh riverside apartments — Vauxhall’s most famous former resident is Jeffrey Archer.

It is a place to pass through, not to linger. But at the weekend it’s a different story. A small triangle of land sliced in two by Kennington Lane is a microcosm of clubbing that draws people in search of unadulterated hedonism in one of London’s — and Britain’s — hidden hellholes, reeking of fantasy, excess and seediness.

Late-night revelry in Vauxhall isn’t new — it’s been happening since the mid-17th century, when the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens first opened its gates to punters from royalty to rogues. For the next two centuries visitors strolled the illuminated grounds and gorged on entertainment such as Handel’s music with fireworks, hot-air balloon launches, Madame Saqui the bearded tightrope walker, and American Indians from the colonies.

Some dared venture to the overgrown shrubbery at the back, known as Slut’s Hole. Few returned with their trousers — or wallets — intact.

Fast-forward to 2003 — strobes, superstar DJs and drag queens have replaced the more genteel night life, but the seedier side is still there. Vauxhall’s landmark is the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, built in 1863, so named because Queen Victoria is said to have stopped in for a port and lemonade once. Queens of a different type have been gathering in the pub since the early 1950s for drag shows.

It has helped launch the careers of Lily Savage and Julian Clary. Now it’s home to Duckie, the Saturday night post-gay rock’n’roll bunfight — run by yours truly.

Sunday nights have been a Royal Vauxhall institution for years with the sequinned heels and vodka-rattled voice of the Dame Edna Experience. Round the corner, underneath the railway arches, Saturday nights are for Crash bunnies who flex their pecs to hard-house sounds, aided by bottles of pure mineral water. A few remaining arches are being turned into a pool hall and strip joint. If you see gangs of chaps wearing chaps, they are on their way to the Hoist, a venue favoured by leather-loving men. Once I saw Jean-Paul Gaultier get out of a taxi right in front of Duckie. I instructed the door staff to allow him in on the guest list, only to watch him flounce over to the Hoist in a leather kilt.

Dukes on Kennington Lane is a local-style gay pub with nights for various facets of the “community” — hirsute chubbsters (Chunkies), country-and-western dancers (Lines & Bears), Ben Sherman-shirted baldies (Man Size). Across the street, the Fringe used to be a slick boozer; now it is a dual-purpose venue. On the ground floor is a clubby atmosphere, former home of the legendary soul-jazz Saturday Night Fish Fry, and upstairs is a fully equipped dungeon should anyone fancy something a bit more risqué than unfit thirtysomethings attempting Northern soul dance moves. The last Saturday of every month is so outré that Abdul, the man who runs the off-licence opposite, can’t bear to look out of the window — Banghra is a gay Asian night where Sikhs in turbans mix with young Asian bent-wrist types wearing saris.

All of Vauxhall’s nightlife converges at the Glyn Street minicab office, run by calm-voiced African men keen to prevent puking on the seats. The taxi queue looks like the bar scene from Star Wars, with last-minute one-night-stands negotiated as fares are agreed. Brian is the man with the clipboard. If you’re female and wearing a short skirt, you’ll jump the queue. This is crucial, because safe escape from Vauxhall in the wee hours should be everyone’s main objective.

Under the cover of darkness, Vauxhall may be squalid, sordid, dilapidated, mysterious and tatty. But I can think of no other corner of London — or indeed these isles — where hedonists from all walks of life converge in such fierce pursuit of pleasure. Hogarth, Dickens and Pepys did the same in their day.

Modern-day Vauxhallians dedicated to the delights of Slut’s Hole are carrying the ratty, tatty torch of delight right into the 21st century.

(posted 7707 days ago)

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