Why Kettle Black is comfortably Sheffield’s most tragic venue
No, it isn’t Corp
Ask most people to name the most tragic club in Sheffield and they will answer with little delay. Corp.
Whilst it is true that the floors are at bit grim, and that the last time I was there I spent the evening beside a sweaty, topless chap (I’m no grass, but I must admit to hoping for him to be chucked, as would happen in any logical club), I’m here to argue it is not in fact Sheffield’s most tragic venue.
When you think tragic club, you’ll generally picture dirty floors, cheap drinks, clientele gathered from the fringes of society. Kettle Black has none of these things. Yet, rather admirably, it still achieves the feat of being the most cringe-inducing venue the Steel City has to offer.
On the face of it, Kettle Black is lovely. Recently opened, good location, reasonable (if a bit tacky) interior design, nice combination of inside and out. There’s no denying it has a lot of strong points.
However, the factor that gains them this illustrious title – the heroes of the piece, if you will – are the folk who frequent KB each weekend.
We’ll start our analysis of this sad lot with that very point – ‘each weekend’. Whilst this also occurs with other clubs, you really get the sense with the patrons of Kettle Black that this is what their life centres around. Yes, they have a job in the week. Perhaps they also follow a football team. Shit, they might even have a family.
But ultimately, this is what it’s all about.
Posing for a photo with your vodka and coke, in your overly tight turtleneck, that you’ll go home and stick on Instagram captioned with some Drake lyrics, making sure to tag the location – otherwise what’s the point?
Sadly, the aforementioned blood-constricting turtleneck is only the tip of a clothing based iceberg.
Now, I’m not quite bad enough a person to slag off any old person for how they dress (maybe I would if I dressed well myself, but that’s besides the point).
However, when people step out in such a manner that they’re clearly attempting to flaunt themselves – be that their wealth, fashion sense, criminal abilities, or otherwise – I’ll happily lay into them.
It annoys me when people claim you only pay a lot for clothes for the brand name, as often that’s not the case. In this instance however, the anti-label brigade have hit the nail on the head.
These are the type of people who still think ankle high trousers with no socks are the height of fashion. The sort who buys the entirety of a Zara models outfit. The sort to cry with joy when they find some Balenciaga jeans in T.K. Maxx. They fuelled 90 per cent of the recent lust for Gucci trainers. In summary, they ain’t getting street styled any time soon, however much they feel they’re worth it.
It’s not only the people inside that bring KB down, but also those on the door. Bouncers don’t have the greatest reputation anyway, but it seems working a supposedly ‘high end’ spot takes them to a whole ‘nother level of annoying.
They’re the type to act like they’re doing a favour letting you in to this homage to ostentation.
Corp (and many others) may, on the face of it, be far worse clubs. But at least they embrace what they are. It’s much better to be grim and live with it than it is to think you’re the coolest kids in town, whilst looking like you’ve been dressed by a personal shopper you met on the strip in Marbella, unable to go more than two sentences without uttering the word ‘bro’.
In conclusion, the clientele of Kettle Black are the perfect example of why the rest of us can’t have nice things.