Stereo (Now Silk NightClub)
[Address witheld, so you don’t attempt to visit]
Composing a lucid review of this nightclub is nigh impossible due to the paradox that in order to go there in the first place, you would have to be so off your face as to obliterate all subsequent memory of the event. What little recollections one does have of Stereo return only in flashbacks over the course of the following days. If this sounds like a bad acid trip, that’s because it is. Although in fairness to acid, even the most horrific chimeras it conjures pale in comparison to the gruesome spectacle that is Stereo. It would be nice to just wake up and dismiss the whole thing as a bad dream, but unfortunately the stamp on the back of your hand confirms its veracity – yes you really did go there, that’s how drunk you were. Having your drink spiked in this club would actually be a mercy – oh to wake up in a stranger’s bedroom with the realisation that whatever you’ve done can’t be worse than the evening’s entertainment that precipitated it.
Memory loss and Stereo are two concepts that are inexorably intertwined, and it’s not all down to the alcohol. Anyone with an elementary medical knowledge will know that at times of extreme trauma, the brain will often black out all memories surrounding the event. That is why it’s not uncommon for victims to wake up in hospital with no recollection of the savage beating that sent them there. The same concept applies to Stereo; if you were to venture here sober (an inconceivable idea, I know, but indulge me for a second), you would probably still wake up the next morning with no knowledge of the event. Such black-outs are probably for the best however. Indeed, one’s main regret upon stirring the next morning is generally having failed to imbibe a sufficient quantity of alcohol as to obliterate the entire experience. On the plus side, it makes the Maybelline-clarted whale snoring happily on your pillow seem insignificant; at least you can chew your arm off to get away from her – Stereo will haunt you forever.
If we must talk about this club in any great detail – and alas we do, as my therapist has informed me that to achieve closure I should document this trauma – then let’s get it over and done with. Then, once all this is read and done, let’s never mention that cursed name again.
There is a hell, believe me I’ve seen it
Nestled in one of the most beautiful and historic parts of Edinburgh, adjacent to the Grassmarket and at the foot of the soaring King’s Bridge, lies Stereo nightclub. It is the sort of jarring cultural clash that makes one realise that there is no god, and we really are on this planet solely as a consequence of chance and bad luck. Ascribers to the ‘many worlds’ theory however will be heartened to know that there are an infinite number of universes out there in which Stereo doesn’t exist. Now if only someone would hurry up and invent a dimension-hopping machine. For the rest of us, stuck in Edinburgh City within this infernal universe, Stereo is a monster that cannot be ignored, and thus we must face this beast head on if we are to have any prospect of slaying it. If we, as a city, were to ignore this monster for long enough, it really would go away. Unfortunately, bolstered by EU readers popping in ‘just to see if it’s as bad as that blog says it is’, Stereo looks set to bellow fire and bad chart music for some time to come.
If hell has three levels, it is almost certainly a nightclub on King’s Stables Road. The ground floor features cheap decor and bad music, while on the first floor, patrons can enjoy cheap decor and bad music. On the top floor, to freshen things up a bit, Stereo’s punters can look forward to some more cheap decor and bad music. After all, why change a winning formula? Once suitably horsed, the clientele set about setting about each other, in between shaking their fake handbags at the fake music being spun by fake DJs. Indeed, with so much alcohol being forced down throats and then spewed back up again, by 3am the dancefloor looks like something out of The Human Centipede. Visually, based on what little I can recall through the haze of cheap alcohol and flat mixer, the club resembles a school toilets, clad floor-to-ceiling in drab tiles of the sort last seen in comprehensives circa 1982. In fairness to the poor bar staff, at least the tiling makes it easier to mop up the blood, cum and puke at the end of the night.
If you’re blonde and female and your idea of fun is standing on a dancefloor while a horde of horny black men bump and grind lazily against you, head straight to the top floor. However, if you’re a black male and your idea of fun is competing against a host of other equally black men for the affections of the white slut on the dancefloor, head straight to the top floor. Indeed, any women contemplating IVF in their quest to conceive that elusive baby should consider popping in for a boogie – ten minutes on the top floor is enough to make anyone pregnant.
Stereo’s patrons reserve about as much affection for this club as the Blue Brigade do for the away section at Celtic Park – after all, just because you’re obliged to use a building doesn’t mean you have to like it. Still, in the interests of composing a fair and balanced review, credit must go to Stereo for somehow making Shanghai look half-decent, a feat hitherto considered impossible. As you read this, the Guinness Book of Records are already on the phone to Stereo, confirming their incredible achievement.
As this review draws to a close, another flashback has suddenly washed over me, eliciting a conversation at the bar in which someone proposed that the tequila slammers we had assembled to numb the pain should be taken by snorting the salt and then shooting the tequila through our eyeballs. In the cold light of today, I can only say that the temporary blindness that would have ensued could only have been considered a blessing. Stereo, incidentally, seems an entirely inappropriate name for this club, as after ten minutes of enduring the music in here, you would happily stab an eyeliner through one of your eardrums and endure mono for the rest of your life. You may think, after reading this review, that it would be fun to visit Stereo out of curiosity, just to see how bad it is. Let me make this clear – you are wrong. You do not want to visit this club – you just think you do.
Try: Petrol bombing the place
Avoid: Incriminating Edinburgh Uncovered when you wind up in the dock with hands still smelling of kerosene.
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