11/10/2026
Found it! Clives Story đź’ś
Life Before The Country Club
by Clive Miles
I have often thought about telling people how Country Club was born. Most people imagine that I have been attached one way or another in the rave culture since clocks used to tick.
The truth is that for me rave music used to be an annoying noise that was played on the car radio on Saturday afternoon on Radio 1 and meant for the most part that I would divert to Radio 2.
I was at that time a specialist equine photographer, spending vast hours driving from one end of the country to the other. Often getting caught up in police road blocks at the motorway services and in particular the M3, apparently at that time a great meeting point for the then, new wave of illegal raves held somewhere on the M25 or close confines. It would p**s me off that constantly, because I used to tow a burger style van, I would be pulled over as some clandestine burger van headed for all raves east of Kathmandu. The heaviest music I would listen to was a touch of Michael Jackson or The Bee Gees.
It was at about this time that for reasons not relevant to this true account of Clive in the ascendancy that I moved to Southern Ireland, bought a run down, dilapidated farmhouse in North Cork and generally intended to follow my business of photographing horses. Lets face it, at that time the Irish population was mostly cows, horses and farmers. We are talking 1993/4 and even if the cows had no money one assumed the Irish Farmers must have had a few quid poked away somewhere in all that long grass.
I wish I could say this was a really sound business decision with growth potential. It was not. One year into the project I was struggling to convince an Irish farmer that a fiver for a photo of a horse that should have died ten years ago was a sound way to spend a fiver. From his perspective a fiver would buy another bag of feed that would ensure said horse survived another five years. No competition.
My wife, bless her, decided to return to the UK find gainful employment and send money back to Ireland where I was to continue the renovation of a 400 year old farmhouse most of which was buried in mud on the banks of the Blackwater River in North Cork. Seven acres of land, a mile of river frontage, a view to die for, a small wood, and permanent grey skies. Could any man wish for more?
Well yes, actually. I had been practicing the art of setting fire to ma*****na for some seven or eight years previous to my entry into Ireland. Whilst I got a lot of satisfaction from twenty John Player Specials a day, the pang for something smelling a touch more rural (not cesspit) was a constant and more intense desire, building to an uncontrollable urge.
That was it. A journey must be made, Cork City, surely a teenth of dark smelly pot was not beyond the realms of credibility and even in my dire financial situation, this was justifiable and surely could not be more than a 'tenner'.
Saturday night, surely the right time to score. Not too late 9 o`clockish, small side street pubs, gotta be a winner. Now to those who do not know better, of which clearly I was one. Cork City really is nothing more than a series of pubs, joined by the occasional house. Much as I tried not to either overdress...OLD BILL...look at the shoes, or under dress... one o them 'fecking', English Hippies... Riff Raff... and being some 54 years old could so easily have passed for either and indeed was called both at virtually every pub I entered.
I became more and more frustrated as the pub crawling process, sort of funneled you in the center of Cork City and a younger street crowd. An ominous place playing, WOW... CHILDREN - Robert Miles, even I knew that as they played it on Radio 2 a couple o times. Next Door a pub called 'The Donkey`s Ears'. Surely I got to be on the trail now. At 50 some odd years old, with a street full of 16 to 25 year olds, got to be on a winner...
Well, like all things there are winners and winners, I guess it's down to what league you're running in. Clearly I did not have the right papers or credentials. Discreet questions bought a shower of abuse and backlash, more direct brazen approach a similar tongue lash plus a threat for the Guardia to be called. One somewhat churlish young lady seemed to take a bit of pity on my situation and directed me to a pub further down the same road.
Now at this stage my enthusiasm and desire had to a very large degree passed. Plus the constant "Half o L***r, Please" requests left me with a strong desire for a large Brandy and the last thing I ever wanted to see again is a half of fully bubbly, frothing l***r. I approached said pub, looked carefully through the half open door into virtual darkness. Had this pub gone skint, maybe the lights didn't work, certainly not many people to be seen, but wait....what was that smell.....'Oh! S**t' I felt like Klondyke Sam when he hit pay dirt in 1882. That heavy pungent and unmistakable smell that emanates from one source only in the great big world of horticulture.....
I virtually rushed inside the premises, tried to act SOO cool, ordered a half of l***r and sort of swung my nose in the air as a sort of sign that I knew what aroma was in the air and further that I approved.
"That´ll be 10 bob, English r yeh?"
I nodded affirmation as I swigged at the icy cold liquid. The man continued to banter, my eyes became accustomed to the serious lack of light and I slowly looked about me, not wishing to appear too nosy but also wondering what the format was to get served and indeed by whom.
To my left, a couple of long haired 30 some things not talking, leaning on the bar. An even darker corner with a sort of garden table and bench seat seemed to be host to a serious pile of empty bottles and crates and nothing else. Another identical rustic table and bench arrangement directly behind me had a female sitting with a pint of something, a packet of Golden Virginia and some green Rizla spread in front of her. Was I really staring that hard?
"Do you want a rolly?" Came the question as she stared right back at me. I remember stammering, a reply and agreeing to share a roll up with her. She beckoned me to sit down and I took my half of l***r and sat opposite her, cautious at my vulnerability, my Englishness and my stupid tiny glass of l***r. When seated she pushed me the pack of to***co and the papers in a gesture to help myself.
Now to this day I cannot, if my life depended on it roll a cigarette. I sheepishly peeled off a green paper and started to draw to***co from the packet. That action alone was sufficient. She took the pack of to***co from me and drew another paper. In 10 or 12 seconds had fashioned a wafer thin cigarette which she handed to me. I felt like a kid at the back of the bike sheds for the very first time with the elders looking on at the first inhale of contraband smoke. I coughed. I spluttered. No matter how I tried I kept coughing. The girl burst out laughing and I laughed back, once I was breathing normally again. I handed back the rolly and took a JPS out of my cigarette packet.
It transpired the girls name was Lisa. She was 20 something, skinny as a thimble and so pretty with long black hair that drifted to her waist. We chatted for 30 mins or so and she helped me broach the subject of pot and its acquisition. She indeed gave me a small piece the size of my finger nail. Point blank refusing my offer of money for it. (Now really old Country Clubbers from day one almost will realise this was Lisa the bar girl that worked at Country Club for a couple of years. This was the first time we ever met). I finished my cigarette, downed the rest of my l***r and thought it was time to exit. I gave my thanks, said "Goodbye" and left with a 40 foot smile on my face.
I returned the following week in the hope of seeing Lisa again. Hoping she would at least point me in the right direction for a proper purchase. I entered the pub, walked to the bar and ordered my drink, looked back and there she was at the same table, but accompanied by a guy. I was invited to join the couple and was introduced to Terry her boyfriend. A nice enough guy who had a broad Cork accent that made it difficult to understand him. Conversation was that normal awkward first time meeting style. All manner of rubbish was referred to with massive pauses in between trying to think of something interesting to say.
"So are yers here to score again?"
Was the quite blatant question. I remember feeling embarrassed and looking at Lisa for some sign that it was ok to talk about it.
"It´s ok, Terry will sort you out, he's sound as a pound!"
She assured me. Ten minutes later Terry and I were in the toilets and I purchased my first TEENTH.
"Put it in yer shoe."
He advised and I did as requested. An hour later saw me driving home even more elated than the previous week.
I returned to the pub for the next two or three weeks, and each meeting became easier and in fact found Terry really good fun to talk to as he was in truth a bit of a comedian. Lisa was always there too and dare I suggest we all became friends.
"Would yers be up for a party?"
Terry asked at our next meeting. Ah trapped! In truth I was not a party animal and this coupled with a nearly 30 year age gap made me apprehensive to say the least. Then the prospect of insulting them with a NO put my line of pot in jeopardy.
"Yes, sure."
Was my reply thinking a house party would be easy enough to leave anyway. I was asked if I had my car outside which of course I did. Within ten minutes, drinks were drunk and Terry stood up to lead the way out of the pub. Thirty minutes later we are driving out of Cork City and headed to Christ knows where. My newish, Michael Jackson - HISTORY album was playing in the tape player.
"That´s doing my head in have you nothing harder?"
Questioned Terry. In truth I had no idea what was meant by harder. He thrust a tape at me and it was duly placed in the tape player. I have no idea what the tape was only that it sounded like the Saturday afternoon Radio 1 rave stuff. For the sake of my guests and not wishing to appear square I allowed it to play for the duration of the journey. At one point Terry shouted
"There up in the tree... look... follow dem balloons."
It was now one O`clock in the morning and after twenty minutes of balloon following with a more and more excited Terry came a clearing and the thump thump thump of a massive sound system.
Welcome Clive to your first ever Illegal Rave... My first impression was to turn around and go home, but my two guests were my supply line. I had to sit it out! Somehow it was infectious. Perhaps the rolling of a joint helped.
At some point Lisa sought me out and asked,
"Are yer ok?"
I answered
"Sure but I got a pounding headache so go have fun I'm fine!"
She dug in her bag and offered me an 'ASPIRIN' and a swig of her b**r to wash it down. Ha ha... welcome Clive to La La Land.... To abbreviate this chapter, my greatest recollection of that night was lying on the grass, totally exhausted and my brain doing its own thing. The music stopped momentarily as a thin sun edged over the horizon. Another tune played as the sun rose and is still my strongest memory of this whole scene...The tune...
Jam & Spoon - Follow Me
From that moment on I was hooked to the music an emotion and feeling never ever surpassed, nor would I want it to be, but it was a life changing moment and something I wanted to share with the world. A moment in life that can never be repeated other than in my mind, maybe that sentiment gets a little overinflated with the passing of time. But who cares it was MY moment.
A little after that people started to leave, Terry and his girlfriend found me and asked if I was OK, both grinning from ear to ear and did I think I was OK to drive. God knows what sort of fool I made of myself, that to this day remains a blank. But hell, happy doesn't begin to cover it.
Chapter 2
The following week I knew I had to somehow be involved with this crazy music. I found the local record shop in Cork City and spent days sifting through CD's but hearing the real sounds on vinyl being played by the various punters. I bought several of those I liked including a box set of PROLECULT, even though I had no record player. The guy tried to explain that the real s**t only came on vinyl and maybe I should think about buying some 1210´s? As explained earlier I was virtually skint at that time and even buying the vinyl was totally irresponsible, but hell we all know this whole scene is irresponsible.
I contacted Lisa and Terry and told them I wanted to make a party at my house, he hired a speaker and a couple of record players, and the first party was under way, well not quite eight people did not constitute my idea of a party and with Terry trying to DJ and my ten or twelve records thrown in for good measure, this could not be deemed a success by any stretch. The resultant autopsy of its failure was not enough time to let people know plus the 'DJ'.
Now me being me was not about to let a little thing like that get the better of me and a month later saw hired sound, 1210´s sorted, lots of trolling pubs, spreading the word, a massive whole in my bank account and a wife in the UK shouting any amount of abuse at me for wasting our funds. I couldn't argue with her and indeed a period of non contact ensued..
Party number two was better with two DJ´s from Cork City, still not brilliant but at least they had a larger variation of music and most of the beats sort of fitted together plus thirty five to forty people so it was a nearly success.
At some point in the night I was sitting at the kitchen table, when a lass of 17/18 sat next to me. There was an awkward silence although it was clear she had something to say.
"You ok darling"
Was the all I could come up with...
"Well yes I am, but, well I was wanting to know how auld yer are?"
Questions like that catch you unaware and my answer was vague.
"Well what do you think I am?"
Was the best I could think of.
"Well, 35 or 40, its difficult to tell cos I guess all them drugs has fu**ed yer face up!"
I burst out laughing, it was the sincerity behind the statement obviously not meant as an insult.
"Oh, darling I wish! I´m 55."
She went quiet momentarily and stared right into my face.
"Christ, you really are a DANCE DADDY"
And that is where the name came from.
Success yes, but still not good enough for me, If you're going to do a job do it right. One month later saw party number number three arranged with two recommended Cork DJ´s, sound system, the whole 9 yards. On the duly appointed night I drive the 25 miles to cork city, to pick up the DJ´s and their records and return to my house to make final adjustments and preparations. A lot of pubs visited to spread the word and generally realising without advertising how you can get a proper party going.
Little flyers were made and my new DANCE DADDY logo used for the first time. We get back to my house and the two DJ´s started messing about with the sound system to make sure all is as required.
****CRASH****
The front door is on the floor and a flood of Guardia enter the house including female officers. I get escorted to the kitchen and respectfully searched. The two DJ´s fared less well. They were stripped to underpants and bare feet. The police I imagine felt a little stupid, it was only 9 o'clock and the party started at 10pm. I asked if I could at least put the door back up to fill the hole? They agreed and even helped.
Now totally unbeknown to me, a 53 seater coach load had been organised from Cork City, along with a mass of others in cars and camper vans following, even some hitch hikers. The coach was too large to fit into the quarter mile boreen (small lane) that led only to my house.
So it stopped at the mouth of the lane and dropped off his cargo of ravers, them doing the last 400 yards or so on foot. Quite how these people knew or sensed the police presence I will never know, but ALL contraband items were discarded, hidden in trees and bushes prior to entering the house, as soon as they did they were set upon by the police, girls and boys split and searched. More police arrived as the party numbers swelled and this process must have gone on until way past midnight. No drugs were found, no arrests made! The police told me that I must tell the people to go home and that there would be no party..
As I tried to do as requested, I was merely shouted down and someone tuned on the music, and a massive roar erupted. The party was on and the police progressively left. At this stage we were getting on for a couple o hundred people, and the most incredible atmosphere I had ever known. The party just got bigger and bigger as the early hours progressed. Wow my first proper success with the music. My position and name of Dance Daddy firmly cemented in place. Including the 8 foot x 4 foot logo I had painted for the party being taken by the police as evidence of my illegal rave.
The party started to break up at about 9 am and by 10 all were gone. My house was wrecked, the grounds outside looked like a war zone but Wow what a party! I went later to the village to buy ci******es. The local shop refused to serve me or even speak. Apparently the police had closed all the roads in and out of the village. So none of the locals could go out at all. I was labelled a drug baron and life was not quite the same again.
On the Monday following I got a visit from the chief Constable of FERMOY (nearest large town), where my situation was spelled out... leave Ireland or suffer the consequences was the basic instruction. Two months later I was back in England looking to start again.
Chapter 3
Now that my house in Ireland was sold and I had few quid in the bank I joined my wife in England. We had a small downstairs flat in Boscombe (Bournemouth). She was still working mostly nights as an agency nurse. We became ships that passed in the night and I have to say she put up with a great deal from me and my new found passion.
At this time I knew nothing about clubland. I assumed parties were the norm which of course in the UK they were not. Even those that were arranged were dark secrets known only to the officianados of that group...
My wife's younger Sister, was at that time into the "scene" and it was she that introduced me to her then boyfriend another clubber. We started to frequent a Gay Club in Bournemouth as it was at that time the only place that stayed open until 6 AM. The music was predominantly "Hard House" not my greatest like but it was somewhere to go. The group of three grew to five and then seven all straight but loving the freedom and hours of that club. One of the group was recently divorced and we would go from the club to her house and continue partying through Sunday...
On one such occasion I tried my first ever acid tab only to later realise I had the car and I needed to take my wife to work for a Sunday shift. I drove back to our flat, no problems. Surely I got a bad one cos nothings happening. I even managed to slide into the bed without waking her.
I laid there and watched the ceiling start to change colour. OOOP's! The alarm went off and my wife shakes me to get up to take her to work.
"Why has she got green hair? Freaky"
I manage to behave, I assume normally, and we make it to the car and the five mile journey to Parkstone without incident although the strange colours freaked me out and I am sure I was in a jet aeroplane most of the way. It was just before 9 am so we were even on time. I pecked her on the cheek, said goodbye and feel a rush of relief as I drive off.
I didn´t remember the gates being so narrow on the way in to her work place, they had shrunk. But hell I´m an ace driver! I can get through there and a bit of speed will carry me through if I get stuck. I get out onto the road at God knows what speed with a furious lurch to the right. I'm out into the big wide world six hundred yards further on is a roundabout with five exits.Hey hey, easy peasy!
It's now 9.45 am... I am still on the roundabout trying to decide which exit I want! Every time I spot the right one its too late and I have to go round again. Quite where I went to this day remains a mystery but I got back to the party at a little after 11 am. First and last time with that stuff.
I continued to party with that group and it was whilst I was with those guys that I met 'Scotty' - DJ Dave Scott. Dave Scott McCroskie He had a box of records and was actually able to play properly. We were instant friends. He taught me so much about the music, the different styles and sounds. His precision with mixing making the beats take on a new sound. I was totally in awe and it brought back my previous determination to get involved with a club and the scene. Had it not been for him and his patience with me, The Country Club would never have been.
To keep this story as short as possible I continued to try and find premises to use for "My" club. I nearly gave up at one point and even went to Spain in search of the right place. I nearly paid a deposit for a place in Barcelona but fortunately did not sign anything.
It was on my return to the UK that one of the group called me up and told me about a dodgy club out towards Yeovil somewhere. I nearly refused to go look at it because I had visions of my place in Spain and how it could be. After several days of pestering it was decided that Scotty and I should go check it out. It was closing in two weeks time so it was then or never.
On the night in question, we drove the seemingly endless journey, out into the back and beyond of Christ knows where. We entered the A37 designated Fog Zone at about 9 pm and got almost into Yeovil when it was decided we must have missed it. An about turn and back up into the clouds to find the elusive club as I am sure many first time Country Clubbers will appreciate. The weather on that hill is a system all of its own and the club was as hard to find as the Marie CĂ©leste. But we made it somehow and parked the car. I was already convinced this had to be the worst place in the world to have a club and frankly wasn't even that keen on going inside.
The music could be heard from outside and was indeed the saving grace of the night, it was just the sort of stuff from my Irish free party so decided to risk going inside to check it out. Blue Peter was playing downstairs on a bit of a rickety system but it was adequate I guess and there were maybe 80 or so people there in various stages of happiness and euphoria. A brilliant atmosphere of a genuine everyone knows everyone club, even if it was grotty as hell and a right mess in terms of services and amenities.
I don´t know why but there was something about the place that appealed to me, although the grandeur of the Spanish club was still my strongest instinct and basic business inclination.
We did not stay to the end and further enquiries revealed that the club was in fact only open for another three weeks. We drove back to Bournemouth in a sort of numbness. I think we were both disappointed that it had not been a more inspiring place and Jesus the place needed so much work doing to it. I was not rich enough to pay for all that on top of the lease purchase but maybe, in truth, I didn't want to go to Spain...
After the weekend, I went to see Chris B at his record shop in Bournemouth and started to relate my description of the club out near Yeovil and did he know anything about it.
"That s**thole!"
Was his instant retort and he related how he played out there a couple of times. His advice,
"Don´t touch it with a barge pole"
As Chris made his statement a voice from behind us interrupted...
"Even I couldn't make that place work."
I looked around to see who I now know to be Richard Carr of the OPERA HOUSE. He was so full of himself and how wonderful he was etc... that I decided then and there to take the club and show this jumped up, self opinionated prick that it could work. The following weekend saw me back at the Country Club negotiating with Nigel the owner and my determination to show Richard Carr what a prick he was grew more with every passing minute!
Chapter 4
Well the club closed down. It was so messy I thought it better to at least try to get some basic amenities working. The closure meant that we had until May the 5th to sort out sound, decor and all manner of things. On the tightest budget imaginable! The upstairs at that time had a bar which was effectively a few b**r crates with a couple of planks across them. The seating was well worn out old armchair things. Most of them if you sat in them you ended up virtually on the floor. It had a normal white painted ceiling and various pastel shades on the walls. I had decided to rename the place as CLOUDS, even had my little advert line worked out.
"COME UP IN THE CLOUDS"
Seemed totally appropriate to me and sent out a sort of cryptic message as to the type of party people I wanted...
So the upstairs was painted dark blue ceiling and lighter sky blue walls with big fluffy clouds all over the place. The bench seats were for the most part salvaged and many of the remaining stuff was taken out and burnt. I built the bar myself and purchased more fridges and freezers for the b**rs and water. If memory serves it took about 3 weeks to get this room into some sort of agreeable shape with Scottie's help of course and his then girlfriend.
This room being now transformed (still well iffy though) I decided to give the helpers a little break and make a small party upstairs on the Saturday night. Some sound had been installed, 1210's had been purchased and everyone had put in such effort and long hours we had enough to make a small private party and indeed why not...
Off I tromped to Bournemouth, purchased a couple of cheap disco type lights a smoke machine and I think a load of UV strip lights. Wow now we're buzzing!
Upstairs actually felt like a club for the first time since the purchase. By about 10 o'clock that evening Scotty is on the decks and the new lights and UV turned on. Everyone happy bunnies. I think there were only 8 or 10 people altogether. Smarties were shared out and drinks poured..NICE what a supper way to spend a Saturday night....
Now I should point out at this stage that the club was connected to the local fire brigade in Dorchester as a precondition of license. No one had actually told me this but I knew the fire alarm switches downstairs were supposedly functional. I had checked these and all were switched "OFF" So at maybe 11 or so when we are all having a "really" good time. I decide to try out the smoke machine and laser. The room fills with smoke in no time. Fabulous and look at the laser...groovy or what.
Then all hell breaks loose! The real fire alarm is wailing away the emergency lights come on. There is total confusion and pandemonium all this on a rather dysfunctional brain. Not good...
I rush downstairs to try to turn off the alarm to no avail. They are still wailing away and with a less than functional brain am confused to the limit. Ten minutes later the upstairs side door is being hammered literally by the local fire brigade trying to bust the door down. I open the door and six or seven fireman burst into the room. We look stunned, confused and a long way short of compos mentis. The Fire chief leads me downstairs and shows me how to turn off the alarms and then proceeds to give me a lecture on wasting their time.
I am leaning on the back of a chair because in truth I was having trouble standing still. Now as if things couldn't get any worse, enter Mr Plod! They had a call because it was a public building etc. Now I get a real Dutch Uncle talking too from the officer in charge and still I am having trouble focusing let alone holding a conversation.
I was given an almighty telling off and sort of told that he hoped this was a one off private situation and it did not bode well for the club to already have "That" kind of problem even before opening. They duly left and we continued to party but scared to try the smoke machine again just in case... Good night though... ha ha :D
The downstairs was all arse about face for my liking. There was a bar where the DJ booth ended up. The DJ booth was under the side seating area. This meant those going to the bar had to push through the dancers to get to their destination, a constant disruption for the dancers. I decided the downstairs was for dancing full stop. It didn't need a bar and the configuration that we ended up with was pretty much like that after my revamp, other than the addition of little side benches to sit on remained like throughout. The floor was covered in Green and White Kitchen Vinyl Tiles many broken up and with foot sized holes where the tile had been, very dangerous! Ok no big problem lets repair the holes with cement and then carpet the hole place that will get rid of the green and white cafe floor look. JOB DONE!
Now what about sound and DJ booth? As previously stated I did not have a lot of money so had to be very careful where it was spent. But it always occurred to me that, in truth, a club or disco is a shop selling sound. If the shop is to survive its sound needs to be the best it can sell. I scoured all the usual retail places but decided, for the most part, the stuff was inferior and overpriced.
Luckily I spotted an advert in the classified section of DJ Magazine, sound systems built to your specifications. Wow that sounds cool... let's call the man. He came to the club that weekend, checked out the downstairs and kept muttering about "No fecking headroom, long throw this that and the other. A price was negotiated within my budget and the order placed. Two weeks was the promised delivery time about one week from our 2nd May opening date cutting it fine to say the least but needs must as the devil drives....
The guy worked his butt off and arrived the following Saturday to make the install. He wanted to make sure if it needed tweaking. He had time to do it... fair play that's how you should run a business. He arrived on Saturday morning at about 10 am. The downstairs side fire doors wedged open to stop them slamming closed while hulking these great big bass bins about. About two hours later all speakers were roughly in place and some noise was required to check all the connections etc. Scotty happy time, never can stop that man from smiling when he is behind the decks. With a brand new system he was like a dog with ten tails! Not too loud to start with, make sure they are all connected, then give it a bit of volume to get an idea of the sound quality and the speaker locations. So far so good all of us are very happy bunnies.
"Give it a bit o stick this time Scotty lets see what they really sound like."
Says the man from the speaker company. Not much chance of a refusal there. Up goes the volume...WOW! Incredible, the installer just starts tweaking the amps and stuff and getting a bit more out of the system. Both Scotty and I have got smiles the size of Cheddar Gorge. We both walk towards the staircase to see how the volume carries with the low ceiling and as we get close to the last fire exit, doors still open, a guy from the gun club comes screaming in the door. ( Joe Tebenham )
"Turn it off! turn it off!"
He´s screaming
"Look at my Clays, it´s a competition."
Both Scotty and I look out onto the club grounds. There are about a dozen or so shooters stood like Zombies watching those little round clay pigeon things flying in all directions.
Of course they are normally voice operated for a competition, so when shooter shouts 'PULL' off goes the sling. Our sound system was so loud it had set off all the slings and there were frustrated shooters and clay pigeons flying everywhere... I guess what made it funnier was the look of total disbelief on the shooters faces.
Well a week later saw the opening night at the club 2nd May 1998. We had many many funny times at the club and in truth I cant imagine a better way to run a business or a better business to run.
I always took the view that all the customers were personal friends and treated the nights as parties not commercial money earners. For me it seemed to work but maybe that was just the passion showing through.
Hope you enjoyed this true account of the pre club days. I certainly did, well most of the time....
RESPECT TO YOU ALL
CLIVE
