Here’s what your favourite club in London says about you

London: a city for those who wish to get more out of the game we call life, catering to a plethora of varying demographics. On one hand, there’s the “finance bros” dressed in tailored suits sharp and smart enough to send your gran into a pride-induced aneurysm. On the other, there’s the ever-evolving queer community of the capital who, conversely, are often dressed in absolutely nothing (attend a ‘Porn Idols’ Thursday at Heaven and tell me I’m wrong).

It’s only right, therefore, that our beautiful city possesses enough clubs to cater to the masses.

Your choice of London club says more about your character than you’re probably willing to admit. But have no fear – here’s a list of some of London’s most infamous nightclubs, along with the sorts of creatures you may or may not find lurking beyond the sticky doors.

Fabric

It is of my own personal opinion that Fabric lies in a realm specifically dedicated to those of you who are tasteless creatures of habit. However, my personal character equips me with a high enough level of self-awareness to admit that at least one outing here is a right of passage for London students.

Fabric seem to think they’ve absolutely mastered the algorithm required to ensure maximum appeal by plastering ‘F*** me, it’s” at the beginning of any niche category they can come up with.

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However, I have been known to leave with some alternate “choice” thoughts in mind: “f*** me, it’s time to go home and reconnect with my inner self, after spending enough time in this queue to realise I actually don’t like my friends”. Or, perhaps, “f*** me, why is that boy dancing as though he’s making a spiritual effort to communicate with an extra-terrestrial being”.

The overwhelming choice of rooms (differing vastly in both vibe and subsequent “breed” of attendee) makes one wonder as to whether frequent Fabric-goers suffer with chronic indecisiveness in their own personal lives.

Luckily, one need not fret about the element of choice when it comes to drink measurements at the bar. Fabric have successfully stripped us all of the privilege of a double, and, subsequently, any ounce of fun. Regardless, a single vodka Red Bull will do just fine as a photo-prop for when you inevitably think a drunken picture on one of their “aesthetic” swings is a complete necessity.

Ministry Of Sound

If for some inexcusable reason you deem Ministry Of Sound a fitting use of your Tuesday evening, your life motto must be fairly straight-forward – “do or die”. However I am of the personal belief that one remains a happier individual if they stick to the latter – die.

Frequent attendees of Ministry must be suckers for the feeling of inclusion, as once the esteemed DJ has listed virtually every character profile possible, you’re sure to have matched with at least one category in this club edition of “Guess Who?”. “Lemme hear you scream if you’re in the capital city tonight”. Of course I am, Bass Drop Ben. My step count is higher than a mortgage for a small home, and TFL treats me to a twenty-quid outgoing at 4am every morning without fail.

You are also likely the proud curator of a playlist titled “Ibiza Summer ’24 mems”, although the closest experience you’ve had to the island is watching the beach waves livestream screen plastered on the store front at Hollister.

Regardless, this musical collection consists of a series of songs that all make painful and shameless attempts to create nostalgia. The artists on this playlist remix songs like “I Gotta Feeling” in the hopes that, miraculously, they’ll make the house tune of the summer. Unfortunately, however, we left ‘The Black Eyed Peas’ in 2015, along with moustache pattern t-shirts and loom band bracelets that cut off the circulation to your hands.

Ultimately, “packed in like a tin of sardines” doesn’t even justify the level of claustrophobia one will inevitably experience at Ministry. The energy is electric, the air is thick, and if you shut your eyes tightly, you may think you’ve been transported to a horrifying budget escape room challenge. Spoiler alert: there’s no chance of exit until “Fein” finishes playing for the sixteenth time.

The Box

If you ever wake up consumed by a burning curiosity about what Judgement Day might feel like, don’t panic. No need for divine intervention or apocalyptic omens, just plant yourself firmly in the queue outside The Box on a Saturday night.

The scene unfolds with uncanny symbolism. The glare of cheap sequins mirrors an ethereal light upon your mortal soul. The puffs of smoke released from a bedazzled pink lemonade Lost Mary swirl around you like the clouds of prophecy.

Then there’s the bouncer – a towering, seven-foot sentinel of fate. With his clipboard and laser-sharp side-eye, he’s less of a celestial guide and more of a budget Jesus, holding your destiny in his oversized hands.

Unlike the pearly gates of Heaven, however, the rejection at the door here is not accompanied by divine purpose, but by an excuse so elaborate it rivals the ones you gave after forgetting your ingredients for a double food tech lesson in Year 8. Therefore, I am of the genuine belief that, to ensure entry, frequent Box-goers not only have some sort of deal with the owners, but also the devil himself.

You presumably tell people that you go for “the spectacle”. In actuality, your presence at The Box is a research project in which you’re collecting a series of deeply disturbing stories to one day compile into a Crime and Punishment sized book proving that you really did have the wildest time in your 20s.

Nothing shocks you anymore. Even the wildest of happenings cannot phase you. A happy law student, a fully clothed rugby player at sports night, or a bus that arrives on time for your morning seminar – who cares?! You’ve seen things at The Box that would make a dominatrix blush.

You continue to excuse the sights your eyes have been victimised by as “art”. Meanwhile, the rest of us require a three week recovery period, a barrel-sized bottle of Calms, and some form of re-connection with mother nature to go on with life after spending the night there.

Printworks

May god rest her precious soul.

Printworks may have been the womb that carries all forms of regret (as well as outrageous injury and a whole host of out-of-body experiences), but the chokehold it continues to have on all those who own a bucket hat is unparalleled.

If you ever find yourself wondering what another sequel to the Hunger Games may have looked like, Printworks would have satisfied your curiosity.

Nestled in what could only be described as an oversized industrial air fryer, the ex-printing press (turned playground for those who act like humans are essentially furless cats who possess 9 lives, too) is where London’s most probable “SAS: Who Dares Wins” candidates gather for an evening of  headache-inducing music. And that’s before the strobes that not even a pre-X Factor “may contain flashing lights” warning could prepare you for.

If you enjoy Printworks, you enjoy variety, and the luxury of choice. The juxtaposition of walking out of a room that feels like a colossal techno purgatory, into a well-lit smoking area that houses quaint food stalls (like “Stacy’s Homecooked Bakes” and “Melanie’s Mac ‘n’ Cheese”), is an indescribable sensation.

Sunglasses are a thing of obligation. Nothing gives “I’m too slick for this dimension” like wearing Camden Market bought, Elton John-esque sunnies in a completely pitch-black room.

Whilst on the topic of vision, those who attended Printworks with the preconceived notion that they’d have a night spent in a well organised circle of their most loved pals soon learnt that staying in close proximity with them was wholly unlikely. Just as unlikely, actually, as getting on with the people you’re doing a group project with at uni.

I can only assume that those of you who frequently returned there are lovers of self-inflicted pain, as the venue’s sound system was so powerful it could’ve rearranged an elephant’s internal organs. Not to mention that the majority of the DJ’s there had a godlike ability to make you question whether the act of downloading Spotify at the age of 12 was nothing but a slippery slope that ended in this pit of fire.

XOYO

Tucked away in the murky depths of Old Street, XOYO is the bricks-and-mortar embodiment of your one mate who always seems to know the location of the afters. Imagine a last-minute, post-exam house party that’s gone horribly wrong and gotten wildly out of hand and there you have it.

Upon attending XOYO, you are involuntarily faced with the “split or steal” style ultimatum of a lifetime: should you lose yourself in the music, or lose your keys, phone, and – subsequently – dignity?

I would suggest that the interior designers of XOYO have some sort of secret agreement with the creators of Minecraft. The multiple, randomly situated breeze blocks turn venturing from one end of the venue to the other into a crash course in toe-stubbing prevention.

If you do, by some miracle, manage to make it through the crowd without spilling the entire contents of your drink (or getting wound up in a conversation with a wide-eyed drunk about the importance of their SoundCloud), consider yourself a winner.

Speaking of obscure partnerships, if Boohoo Man ever wanted to conduct a market research inquisition on their most valued customers, XOYO would be the perfect destination. The breed of males there possess similar levels of originality in dress sense to teenage girls and their post-holiday Instagram caption.

Times at XOYO often have the tendency to feel like a new and surprising form of cardio-focused exercise. Forget the soul cycle, puppy yoga version of yourself that you dreamed would be releasing sweat before moving to London. The downstairs “pit” at XOYO will do a better job at getting your glands going than any reformer Pilates instructor ever could.

It’s the same premise, in all honesty. It’s just that the Peloton is replaced with a light up vodka lemonade, and the enthusiastic instructor is substituted for a not-so-enthusiastic bouncer who insists that your ID photo (projected on the scanner for the whole queue to see) “surely cannot be you”.