It all goes tits-up the moment you walk past the scrutinizing looks of the bouncers into the hot hot heat of Chameleon. Getting through the door finds you staring at a great jumping wall of dancing people from all walks of life: shouting lads, girls in tiny dresses, leery men in their fifties, guys in their thirties who look like they're on a stag-do, groups of women grinding to Jason Derulo. It's pretty intense. It always smells slightly like vomit. The floor is sticky with glass underfoot, and the cobbled smoking area is a mine field if you're a girl wearing heels. And the idiot to sensible person ratio is completely through the roof. Still, with a few jaegarbombs under your belt (because nothing says 'let's get drunk' like three jaegar's for a fiver), Chameleon is great for a warm up dance before heading on to somewhere a little bigger/better. The music is loud and tacky and often just a little bit too sexual (as is the randomly situated pole, which attracts more men than women to show off their pole dancing skills) but if you're drunk enough to ignore the negatives, Chameleon can often provide you with a pretty good time.
I love Stephen King and music festivals; I eat my toast upside down; I daydream about getting married probably a bit too much; and I wish every day for a pet sausage dog puppy (who never materialises – sob).
