IT WAS a long, sultry summer evening in Leeds, the kind of perfect night that just seems to go on forever until you blink and suddenly it’s midday.
Nicki’s mum was having a party in the back garden of her house on Spencer Place. All manner of mad-heads, oddballs, students, hippies, yuppies, posh girls and rude boys, even a few amiable low-level gangster types, passed through during the night. It was wild.
It was an optimistic – if slightly naïve – time, despite the fact that what would become club culture was in the process of being shooed away from the great outdoors into regulated, licensed clubs. I’d tell you my theory about the great narco-conspiracy between the Tories, the brewing industry and the Colombian drug cartels but we’ve neither the time or the space.
Okay, if you insist.