Kasbah isn’t a club, it’s a utopian paradise

Oh Kasbah, how do I give you justice? How my friends at home laugh when I preach to them of your glory, they throw stinging barbs: it’s in Coventry, the music is appalling, it’s disgusting, the bouncers are sadistic. But how little they know, how quick they are to judge, because out of your self-conscious shitness comes your endearing nature. Your enigmatic name is whispered reverently throughout the communities which rely on your kindness, the two holy syllables painting vivid pictures of nights gone by, and evoking hope for nights to come.

Twice a week we hop on the bus and pay our respects at your hallowed bars, taking communion with your 80p shots and your £1 jaeger bombs. Rich and poor, tall and short, Cov and Warwick. You force people to leave their differences and prejudices at the door, and for the hours you are open you bring the opposites of the world together in perfect harmony, connected by a spiritual appreciation of your existence. Sectarianism, Racism, Xenophobia, Homophobia: these have no place under your roof.

From your balconies, one can observe first-hand the ebb and flow of humanity in the main room below. You manage to house every conceivable facet of modern life within your walls: from the roadmen to the roadies to the rookies, every week you play host to the great tapestry of modern life, where visitors interchange from spectator to actor seamlessly. Fuelled by cheap alcohol and a devil-may-care attitude, groups form and dissipate in a ceaseless cycle of recreation: time folds in on itself as the senses merge into an overriding euphoria of colour and energy.

The same buzz of humanity extends into the smoking area, where happy groups and chirpsing couples gather together for a bit of fresh air. The vast expanse is dotted with bars and seats and is entirely covered for those rainy Coventry nights. You’ve even been so kind as to provide a shack to get burgers from, which really goes beyond the call of duty. Relationships blossom out in that bitter midlands night, and Kasbah, you are the one that makes it happen.

I have seen a fellow student eat an onion for his own weight in booze. I have seen a stripping contest where the prize was a Maccy Ds. I once received a golden dildo which enabled free drinks for the rest of the night. These are the life changing experiences that in many ways have made me the man I am today, so you must forgive me, my dearest Kasbah, that I border on the sycophantic when you come up in conversation.

Your music taste is as eclectic as your qualities: from house to hip hop, to rock and R and B, no genre is left unaccounted for in your benevolent target of music equality. Such greats as 3/7 of S Club, the Wealdstone Raider, and the Chuckle Brothers have graced your stage and performed their bangers to the adoring masses. No star is too big to perform to the Kasbah faithful.

Out with the lads

You are not a club, dear Kasbah, you are so much more. You are an enlightenment Parisian Salon, where the local philosophe debate the existential through to the early hours under the warm haze of shisha smoke. You are the last days of Rome, where the pressures of life are let loose in a hedonistic crescendo of drunken debauchery. You quench the thirst of the thirsty, you give hope to the beleaguered, you are the brightest star in the West Midlands sky.

Old friend, it’ll be with a heavy heart I graduate, and our time together will surely come to a gentle conclusion. But I am confident that you will remain a staple in the lives of students and locals for generations to come. So I guess on behalf of the thousands that you’ve entertained – thank you.