In loving memory of the Old Snobs

I had the pleasure of having my Snobs debut when I was 18, and better yet, at the Old Snobs. 40 years our prestigious establishment stood strong just outside of Victoria Square. I’d be stupid to not own up to the fact that my mum would throw some groovy shapes on the same dancefloor, decades earlier. It’s a club experience ‘passed down’ through generations.

Tactically placed between Top Nosh and Athens Greek Restaurant, this communal home had always looked after it’s loyal guests. It was just two falls and a stagger to revitalise yourself for the taxi journey home.

The winter months were brutal when the queue snaked round the side of the building. You’d get checked before entering their hallway to then pay and be greeted down the stairs by the aesthetically pleasing Snobs faces that we’ve all come to know and love. I have never once kissed one for a joke, or put my boobs in a face. Walk down the stairs and you are greeted by the sweet sweet smell of freshly cleaned loos, the cloakroom and the tiled floor which becomes lethal after 1 am. Your ears are bathed in a warm soapy bath of classic bangers that have come to be known as ‘classic snobs tunes.’ If you know, you know.

There were two rooms, the 60s room and the classic main room. But, only one sticky floor. Our sticky floor.

It took me a while to realise that the main room, which had been named The Hive, had bee hive designed side tables. That unique lack of continuity for a club theme is what made me put down those five hard earnt sterling pounds each week. It was actually the unknown Russian Vodka that sends you west after about five shots. Truth.

And the smoking area. Oh the smoking area. It was a place where you could have an actual breath of fresh air, ironically. It was a place that, granted did look like my nan’s back yard, but offered a secure concrete environment that would occasionally see lads crawling across the roof from the back road. Maybe not so secure, but banter when the bouncers got involved.

It’s a mission to get there during peak hours and if you get stuck, good luck. Have fun sliding along the corridor of mirrors that sweats with you, while getting a glimpse of your full length drunk self. As the hallway becomes more convoluted, you rejoin the traffic exiting and entering the smoking area. The design and setup of Snobs was esoteric, but it was just part of the experience. It became enjoyable.

“Splash for the gash?”

“No Armani, no punani!”

“No spray, no lay.”

“No Paco Rabanne, you’re going home with your nan!”

I’ve only ever heard legendary things about the old Snobs loo man, but I can tell you for a fact that the toilet lady has saved me a handful of times and still remains at the new Snobs. She’s my hero.

Never have I had a bad night at the old Snobs, I grew up there and I was sadly never able to share the experience with my university friends. I’ve been peed on by friends in the loos, had drink thrown on me – probably also by drunk friends in the loos – and had the classic touch up by drunk mid-twenty somethings. Every night has been a night to remember, or wake up and ask others to remember for you. By the end of it’s life, our majestic drunken office was held up by scaffolding, the collective love and willpower of every patriotic Snobs goer combined.

Despite the old bouncers being transferred to the new nightclub, no matter how well they know you and no matter how often you go. If you didn’t experience the warmth and nostalgia of the ‘old Snobs,’ you haven’t done Snobs.