We went on a night out with Fatman Scoop

But what really is the New York transit line?


Most weeks, Thursdays consist of the usual lectures, a Tesco delivery and a night in front of the TV at best. That’s how this day started too, except unlike any other day of our lives so far, and probably any other day to come, it ended drinking vodka J2Os in Fatman Scoop’s hotel suite.

After a morning of tense emails and calls, and fraught to-ing and fro-ing between his people, we received confirmation that the legend himself was happy to meet us that evening, and rather than catch up at Code after his club appearance, why didn’t we go to his hotel before?

Isn't he beaut

Isn’t he beaut

We spent the rest of the day thrashing around in a frenzy of panic and excitement. We couldn’t eat, we couldn’t nap, our seminars were now fully off the cards: instead we passed away the hours watching Put Your Hands Up on loop, and checking out a “sex podcast” the man himself starred in many moons ago.

What do you wear to meet a God? What do you say? Should we bow or take gifts? We pondered these questions as we made sure we looked our best. Like a wedding, or a graduation, or even just coming out of the womb, this was a pivotal moment in our lives, and one we were well aware we’d never be lucky enough to live again.

After being sat in the hotel lobby for over half an hour, it started to become all too apparent that we’d been stood up. Suddenly, it felt like the world was crumbling around us, the skies blackened, and so did our souls with them. Was this all one big joke? Were we being Punk’d? Was Ashton Kutcher about to launch himself round the corner and into our pity party?

Returning to our expectant housemates burdened with our own failure and rejection was a travesty that was just too much to bear. As we contemplated getting an Uber back, and mulled over how we were going to break this on the group chat without being roasted for the next four years, his manager swooped downstairs like an eagle out of the darkness.

He'd covered up by this point

He’d covered up by this point

He apologised profusely and explained that Scoop had been on a run around the city centre. Of course he had, what else? He then beckoned us over to the bar and offered us a both a glass of wine whilst we waited for the legend himself to arrive.

After what felt like an eternity of nerves, a larger than life Scoop strode in, adorned in a full neon lyrca running outfit which left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and those weird Nike flip sandals the Germans normally wear whilst listening to Europop on the beach.

We heard him before we saw him, which is saying something in itself. His voice bellowed through the foyer and his energy radiated even further. Spirited, vivacious and enchanting, he lit up the room both metaphorically, and quite literally in that running gear.

Several bemused business men looked on in on awe as Scoop marched around the table in excitement, telling us all the things he loved about England. Namely, Percy Pig sweets, the rain and Waitrose. We taught him about tea, cheeky Nandos’ and how everyone in Sheffield calls you “duck.” He insisted on taking a multitude of selfies on our phones, and despite us barely getting a word in edgeways, he couldn’t have been more welcoming.

Over two hours later, sufficiently wined and fully versed in the perils of Celebrity Big Brother and his self acclaimed weight loss journey, Scoop and his manager invited us to come along to the club appearance at Code later on that evening, no expense spared.

We ran home, high on life and our new A-list status, gushing to our housemates about the wonderful evening we’d had, and the even better memories to come.

What a trio <3

What a trio <3

After a quick re vamp, we headed to the club, and if it hadn’t already peaked, our moment of self importance inflated even further as we were hoisted into the DJ booth by Scoops men, followed by hoards of fangirls who were very quickly removed.

Looking out onto a sea of adoring fans, albiet Scoop’s fans, we knew that ultimately this was the most loved we were ever going to feel in our lives.

We were hot, we were deafened, but we felt prestige. Scoop captivated the crowd, and our hearts aswell. Suddenly,  without warning, he began bellowing the word “duck” into the crowd.  “Are you out tonight duck?” “Love it here in Sheffield duck!” “Yo duck, put your hands up!”

No he didn't just say Duck

No he didn’t just say Duck

Despite slightly mis-understanding the term of endearment, it was a moment of pride like no other. He turned around and looked at us for approval, like a child riding without stabilisers, or your puppy doing paw for the first time.

His set ended and surrounded by bodyguards we were marched out of the booth and through to the VIP room. We felt like Kim K as an exodus of flailing arms reached out to grab us, and the distant cries of Scoop lovers echoed behind us. As the floods of people surrounded us like paparazzi, we could almost hear somebody shout, “is that Ariana Grande?” “Is that Beyonce?” We had made it. This was it.

Us doing our thing with Scoop

Us doing our thing with Scoop

Sat in the VIP room, we were greeted by high fives from Scoop and the rest of his entourage. He had a momentary rest, and we tried, and failed, to pull ourselves together. It wasn’t long until we were whisked away to sit on the sidelines to watch Scoop do his thing in the photo area.

They brought us over bottles of vodka and copious amounts of mixer and the two of us sat with his manager. Not at any point did Scoop’s energy or enthusiasm falter, you couldn’t knock his dedication to his fans.

The first sign of him being anything close to a diva was when he vacated the club slightly early to get a post hype, pre bed prawn cocktail, and said he’d meet us back at the hotel for more drinks afterwards.

You would want a prawn cocktail after a performance like that

You would want a prawn cocktail after a performance like that

Obviously, wanting to fully maximise our Scoop time and strengthen what had already developed into a pure, and beautiful friendship, we obliged. As we arrived back at the hotel, the owners looked at us with horror and disgust, clearly thinking we were groupies that had been invited back for a night with Fatman. Little did they know that our bond was greater than any meaningless rendezvous.

Getting into bed at 6am, and catching only a few hours sleep before the next day’s lectures, we sat and wondered over a hungover Falafel King, was this the best night of our lives so far?