A French girl in the fridge

Over the years how many people do you think have partied in Brixton at the The Fridge?

After moving sites the club was open in its final destination from ‘84 until 2010. Thousands went on good weekends, 52 weekends a year, over 26 years, roughly 1,300 weekends all up.

 

Millions. Literally millions of people partied at The Fridge.

 

Sure, some of them went multiple times, hundreds of times even. I only went once. I don't know how many times the foxy French woman went, but I was pretty bloody excited to be there at the same time that she was.

 

The Entrain crew were staying with Zanna at the Space Station in Tooting Bec and with very little deliberation we decided to go out dancing. The party was called Escape from Samsara.

 

We walked from Brixton station and down to The Fridge. One giant and four vertically challenged humans. Looking like some sort of psychedelic cross pollination of pirates and pixies, adorned with in hoop earrings and pounamu pendants, wearing weird waistcoats with mystical mandalas. Men in tights, big baggy tops and jika-tabi shoes. The population of Brixton couldn't have cared less.

 

Brixton’s an eye opener. In the early 90s it was a visceral culture clash. There were Yard Boys rubbing shoulders and with city workers, studio musicians and street preachers, dance clubs and drug dealers. It was, and still is, a vibrant part of London.

 

Brixton is home of the eponymous Electric Avenue. Apparently Eddy Grant wrote the song in response to the 1981 Brixton Riot. Shit was bad in Brixton back then. Massive unemployment, poor housing and a radically high crime rate. Tensions were at breaking point, with the national press turning up the gas and the police putting a lid on the pot by searching over 1,000 people over two days, focusing mostly on the African-Caribbean community.

 

The pot boiled over on Friday 10 April when Michael Bailey, a young black man from the neighbourhood was stabbed. A police officer stopped Bailey who was running toward him and bleeding profusely. Bailey ran from the officer and into a local house. The policeman arrived soon after and along with the family in the house he applied first aid and called a mini cab to get Bailey to the hospital. A police car, that had no knowledge of the situation stopped the minicab as it sped away from the house. These cops then saw what was going on and moved Bailey into their car, to get him to the hospital faster. By this point over 200 people had gathered on the street, surrounding the cars and they forcibly removed Bailey into a third vehicle, not trusting the police to care for the injured youth. He died in the hospital.

 

The following day huge crowds gathered on Brixton Road. The rumour mill was churning. Police brutality was blamed for Bailey’s death and before you could shout ”the Molitov Cocktails are on me” a full-blown riot was in swing. Widespread looting, firebombs, bottles and bricks. Schools, businesses and cars burned.

 

So, there we were.

 

In Brixton…

 

No riots, just a busy and warm summer night that was a bit dodgy round the edges.

 

By the time we got into the club it was already heaving. A massive sound system thundered with state-of-the-art psychedelic trance. The walls dripped with hand painted UV banners and the dance floor was rammed.

 

I’d like to point out at this juncture that Londoners love a good party. So do I.

 

Straight onto the dance floor. Stomping. Smiling. Maximum energy.

 

Then this astonishingly beautiful woman started dancing with me. This is pretty normal behaviour in your modern clubbing environment. You dance with the people around you. Sometimes you interact. Sometimes you stay in your own reality tunnel. We smiled at each other and shook our shoulders in each other’s direction. She waggled her fingers and wiggled her bum in my space. I was suitably impressed. Not only was she foxy, she could really dance.

 

When the music is right and the mood is upon me, I really enjoy myself on the dance floor. And I think this beautiful woman responded to my style. My dreadlocks were flying, I was weaving my hands in the air, feet tracing intricate patterns on the wooden floor. Doing a dance that no one had ever done before on those well-worn boards.

 

After hours of dancing together we finally talked.

 

“You bring such energy to ze party! Zis makes me crazee!”

 

Her accent!

 

Everything about this woman was sultry.

 

“My name is Angelique.” She had dark eyes and really long eyelashes. “What iz your name?”

 

“I’m Jamie…”

 

“Tu es très jolie”

 

I had no idea what she meant but I loved it.

 

She dragged me around the party (I gladly followed). She bought me drinks. Introduced me to her friends.

 

Her flatmate winked at me. “You’re not really Angelique’s usual type,” he said “but it looked like you’ve pulled for the night.”

 

Angelique kissed me deeply. She said “Viens chez moi. Tonight, you come to my house…”

 

We danced until the lights came on. Angelique looked deeply into my eyes. She pulled me close to her and kissed me again. I embraced her back, she suddenly stepped back and looked me up and down…

 

“Oh my god! You're a boy!”

Laughing and making hand gestures to explain that I wasn’t coming home with her, she walked away into the morning. Without me.

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