My partner and I booked the daytime soul disco and thought we were in for a funky 70s soul extravaganza — afros, glitter, disco balls, the lot. What we got instead was a sad, echoing hangar that felt like someone had tried to recreate Studio 54 using items from a car boot sale and half a Spotify playlist.
We showed up around 2pm, expecting to catch the groove before the 3pm “cut-off.” Outside were a few people sitting around on scruffy tables that looked like they’d been rescued from the local tip, drinking like they were waiting for something — anything — to happen. Spoiler: nothing did.
Determined to find the party, we wandered into the so-called “disco area.” Imagine the world’s most depressing school hall disco, minus the energy. A few souls were scattered about a large table while a DJ (and I use that term loosely) fiddled with what looked like a children’s karaoke set-up from Argos. The whole space was dark, dingy, and about as soulful as a tax return.
We decided to give it time — maybe the magic would kick in? Nope. Two overpriced pints of flavourless lager later (which tasted like it had lost the will to live), we considered trying the cocktails, but they looked suspiciously like something mixed from supermarket own-brand juices and regret. The food? Let’s just say it looked like it was trying to escape the serving tray.
We ended up sitting in an old cable car — which, weirdly, was the highlight of the afternoon — watching people arrive, stride in with excitement, and walk out again with the same look people get when they realise their holiday apartment doesn’t look like the photos online.
When we finally gave up and left, a few hopeful newcomers asked, “Is it any good in there?” I just smiled and said, “You’ll see.”
In short: if you’re looking for soul, music, or even basic joy, look elsewhere. This wasn’t Saturday Night Fever — it was Saturday Afternoon Flatline.
