Clubs, Drugs And Canapés: The King Of London Nightlife

One man, 5,000 parties - if Adrian Mole and Janis Joplin had a bastard love child, his name might very well be Nick Valentine…
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One man, 5,000 parties - if Adrian Mole and Janis Joplin had a bastard love child, his name might very well be Nick Valentine…

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'A rather jovial guy I met at Erotica is helping organise a massive VIP swingers’ party called Fever, at a five-storey townhouse just off Oxford Street on Saturday. Fever’s membership list is an ultra-exclusive mix of models, politicians, bankers, lawyers, actresses, captains of industry and the founders’ close friends, who all regularly meet up for a touch of ribaldry at various luxurious and discreet locations in and around London. Mr Jolly needs three DJs – one to play house music, one to play funk and soul and another for the chill-out area – and has asked me if I know anyone who fits the bill. I’ve cheerily offered my spinning services for the chill-out slot and recommended a couple of friends for the house and funkier slots.

Much to my fellow DJs’ annoyance, I’ve been given the orgy room while my two compadres have been shown to the dance floor and reception area, respectively. Couples and single girls are slowly starting to trickle in. Nine double beds have been pushed together to create a giant, satin-clad bonking arena. It’s certainly given me a focal point. I’ve decided to kick off proceedings and create the right mood with Albinoni’s Adagio in G minor. It’s all terribly civilised. A touch too civilised, perhaps, as a slim, busty brunette in her early 20s and her partner, a shaven-headed guy of indeterminable age with a bodybuilder’s physique, have rather interrupted the seductive tempo I’m trying to set with a fine display of fellatio, thereby declaring the sexual Olympics officially open.

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Within minutes of the first starting pistol going off, everyone is at it. The assembled players have formed a heaving carnal scrum on the 25-yard line and both sides appear to be pressing for the conversion. Couples, trios, foursomes, fivesomes… are going head to toe, toe to toe, head to head and a few other imaginative competitive manoeuvres I don’t think I’ve ever encountered before. Hats off to the guy who’s just performed an impressive triple jump. Some participants are going for the sprint, others the long distance, but everyone’s pushing for gold with a select few exceptions who are happy to settle for brass.

It’s been a couple of hours or so and it’s now very difficult to differentiate whose arm, leg, head or cock belongs to which writhing participant. The master volume on my decks is pushing 11 and yet the orgasmic grunting is still drowning out my lilting Arabic beats. Mr House and Mr Funk have deserted their posts and joined my side, curious to see this unbelievably torrid spectacle exploding before them.

Three hours in and quite frankly it’s a bit of a turn-off. The initial cheap thrill of nudity and naughtiness has been replaced with, dare I say it, a slight yawning boredom. It’s just all too mechanical, too unemotional. More groping gladiators than romping Raphaelites. I’ve even started caring about what music I play. Would Frank Sinatra’s Songs for Swinging Lovers be too obvious? Mind you, most of the assembled guests are either sunk to the nuts or so otherwise engrossed I think I could play the best of Megadeth and no one would give a shit.

Skid reckons that was the only event in history where the DJs were the only people who didn’t get laid.

The party has made the front page of the Sunday Mirror. Some salacious sneak evidently smuggled a camera into the house and captured all of the swinging shenanigans on film.

My phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day with people asking me when the next Fever party is.'

- Nick Valentine

Clubs, Drugs And Canapés is the story of a regular boy next door, who, armed with a bottle of Milk Thistle and unshakeable optimism, has spent most of his adult life in fifth gear, betting on a Royal Flush while covertly holding a pair of deuces: the odyssey of a suburban bloke who has blagged, lucked and laughed his way into just about every party, club and hot-tub imaginable.

Clubs, Drugs and Canapés invites you to pull up a chair and be thoroughly entertained, as the talented and tenacious Nick Valentine gives you an access-all-areas pass behind the red velvet rope of the club and party scene. From gallery openings with Andy Warhol to private parties with Duran Duran, Valentine has been, seen and danced to it all. ‘I’m a night person,’ he says. ‘The trouble is I’m a morning and afternoon person as well.’ This account is a surprisingly touching look at the mechanics of enjoying life to the max, and then some…

Get your hands on a copy here...