I used to head out with my mates, and I’d always get this deep cringe and ache whenever it crept closer to 6am — that awful moment when the clubs start shutting down. Even writing this now, that feeling comes flooding back. It honestly doesn’t feel like it was that long ago.
Most nights, you’d find me on the Canal Street strip, bouncing between bars and clubs packed with as many men and as much footfall as possible — anywhere that stayed open the latest. Cruz 101, Eagle, Via… drug use was just part of the scene. People piling into cubicles together, the occasional staff shouting warnings — though half the time, you could blackmail them with a bit of coke and they’d turn a blind eye.
That actually reminds me of a mad story from Barcelona. I was out with a mate, desperate to score some drugs. We ended up recruiting some random guy we’d just met to hunt down a dealer for us. No luck, though — so the night ended way earlier than we wanted. Apparently, El Chapo himself was running things in that club — they had an actual toilet cubicle set aside specifically for drug deals.
We waited around in the toilets hoping for a “slot”, but the weirdest part? The toilet attendant was this little old Spanish granny. No idea if she knew exactly what was happening — though honestly, I reckon she did. Probably even took a cut of the profits.
Absolute madness.
