Remembering the golden years at Oceana Kingston

When it comes to tragic clubs, there’s nothing quite like taking a trip down memory lane to Oceana in Kingston.

Now rebranded as Pryzm, this club has tried its hardest to lose the stigma attached to its days of controversial headlines and stories for all the wrong reasons, but some of us are still lucky enough to remember the golden years.

If, like me, your university social scene consisted of the bare minimum that Surrey has to offer, Oceana was a safe haven of cheap drinks, Z-list celebrities and the occasional smooch on the dancefloor with some underage teen who flashed their fake ID and non-existent boobs to the doorman.

Upon entering this multi-roomed crèche, it was clear to see that this was a place so far removed from the Mayfair paparazzi and was more frequented by the desperate and insecure. During my three years neglecting my essays and hopping on a bus to Kingston’s finest, our first stop was always the karaoke room, where some poor soul was half-heartedly spilling their sorrows out to Whitney Houston while never quite hitting those high notes.

If we were lucky enough to attach ourselves to a slightly nerdy group of older guys, we sometimes managed to sneak into the over 21’s RnB room where we were unwillingly ground upon by Body-Odour Bill, the perspiring middle aged man to an R Kelly banger. The original Oceana even included a wood cabin and a hot dog stand in the same room because, obviously, those two go together perfectly.

Now, I’m probably not making this sound very appealing so far, but don’t get me wrong, Oceana was my jam. Today at 25-years-old, I would still not turn down the opportunity to bust a move on the dancefloor if ever the tequila shots in Epsom’s Boogie Lounge took hold and the chavvy appeal of Kingston overcame my Red Bull induced beating heart.

From constantly having to peel our Primark heels off the perpetually sticky floor, to getting knocked out in the Disco Room by some arm-waving enthusiastic 17-year-old while C’est La Vie blared out of the speakers, this place holds many a blurry memory in my head. I even spent one remarkable birthday passed out in an overpriced booth face down on the table, before being carried outside to greet my friends who were wrapped in aluminium foil and asleep on the curb side. You can’t say we’re not classy.

Outside of the multitude of rooms with some commercial megastar blaring over the speakers, this club could not only match make couples, but could also improve your social standing too. There’s not many places in this unfriendly world where you could find a new best friend crying in the toilet after one too many WKDs. And don’t even get me started on the charming toilet attendant that does nothing but frown and tell you off for having the tiniest sleep in one of the stalls.

My guilty pleasure has been frowned upon every time I mention it, but that still didn’t stop me from turning up every Wednesday and Saturday. In hindsight, it’s very easy to see how my student loan left me eating stale bread and beans for the rest of the month when the hedonistic allure took over. A high point of my clubbing career came one Friday night where I was lucky enough to be crushed into a crowd throwing bottles at Sean Paul and salivating over Lucien Laviscount getting a lap dance on stage. If that’s not worth travelling for then I don’t know what is.

When any night undoubtedly ends with our group (plus a few legless stragglers) clutching each other in a circle and swaying to Living On A Prayer, then that’s alright with me. So while you may look down your champagne flutes at others living a less lavish lifestyle, the carefree environment and willing participants still make this club a firm favourite for those nights you can never live down.

Oceana, I salute you.