DCM - Don’t Cry Mamma.
Red neon. Shirts off. Arms like they bench-pressed the door on the way in.
DCM was pure Oxford Street - loud, sweaty, slightly unhinged and absolutely packed.
Commercial dance pumping. Doormen built like brickies. Clubbers built even bigger. The ladies dressed in heels that should’ve come with insurance. If you made it upstairs, you were in for the night.
Before lockouts. Before “boutique small bars.”
Just bass, bravado and bad decisions.
I only went in a handful of times - I was working at the Californian Cafe just up the road for a bit, so I'd drop in after my late shift... but I always felt like I wasn't jacked on enough steroids to blend in.
This tee’s for anyone who remembers the queue, the glare, and walking out at sunrise pretending you were fine.
