Scirocco
Nightclub / Seaton / Cornwall / 22-12-1999 Groobs, UncleEggMan &
CookFromFrozen.
Account
written by: Groobs
Having spent most of my childhood in Cornwall, I was familiar with the sleepy seaside town of Seaton which was just a few miles along the coast from our house. It had been at some point in my earliest memories, a busy seaside resort, part of the ‘Cornish Riviera’ if you will. As a kid I even remember standing in the stream that runs out from the valley and over the beach to the sea, with a toy boat on a piece of string, I can’t really remember exactly what I was thinking, but I remember I thought it was an OK place. A funny memory to recall, but I can always remember how it smelled in it’s glory days. The smell of fish and chips and seemingly hundreds of Mr Whippy ice creams left melting, upturned in the sand by clumsy-assed toddlers.
As the years passed though, things seemed to
look a little bleaker each time our Dad drove us along the cliff road from
Downderry and into Seaton. I don’t know if this was just a case of diminishing
childhood ideals, but I have a much later memory of helping my younger Brother UncleEggMan use the spiral slide in the dead of winter
outside the pub and thinking: ‘…this doesn’t feel the same…’ The town seemed to
feel a little sorry for itself, beyond the fact that it was winter. After
several more years had passed and I’d moved away – I began to feel sorry for
it. Seaton still possessed that sleepy charm though, there was always a darker
side to life in Cornwall that I found strangely alluring, it was the time of
year when the clouds would roll over and the winds would pick up… the tourists
having long since left. Seaton for me was the epicentre of this kind of atmosphere
and when I returned to visit my family every now and then, I’d make a point of
parking my car by the shore to get out and have a smoke. On one particular
evening I remember the weather being really harsh. It was blowing a gale and I
could hear the spinnaker cables of nearby boats flapping feverishly against the
aluminium masts. The tops of streetlamps shook, causing the rain-soaked road to
cast back a shimmering, orange reflection. I’ll be honest, for whatever reason
– I hadn’t really noticed the nightclub back then, but it was there. Abandoned
in the gloom. It would be three years on before I got to look inside.
Myself, UncleEggMan, CookFromFrozen,
and his mate Birdy had been
sitting having a beer as an opportune get-together in the run up to Christmas
at ‘The Smugglers’ as it’s now known (Unsure if this was the case when we were
there… I was drinking ‘Wreckers’ and Guiness though…no shit. So forgive me if
my recall is cloudy!). The Scirocco nightclub was right next door and any
excuse to delay the long walk home was appreciated and so we picked up on UncleEggMan’s idea of having a look round. We only had one
or two torches between us as I remember, so each step was a cautious one. UncleEggMan’s entrance was out back of the club, through
what appeared to be a beer cellar door.
The space inside the club was impressive, much
bigger than it’s outside appearance would lead you to believe. The first few
rooms were absolutely beyond all hope, and worryingly formed the foundations of
the main building. The cellars were full of water and trash and finding stairs
to the bar and dancefloor was a relief. One thing I can say about this building
above anything else is that it seemed to hold more water than the oceans
themselves. It was sodden through. Where anything was made of wood… it bowed
and sagged, lending the otherwise clean lines of a predominantly concrete
building a twisted, Dali like perspective. Emerging from the cellar to the bar
and dancefloor area was eerie, the sudden wealth of space, together with the
claustrophobic darkness, illuminated only by a small cone of torchlight in
front of us, it was a shock to the system. All the while, water poured
intermittently from various spots in the ceiling. To be here alone would have
required a nappy. Shit scary. It was at the dancefloor that I got a real sense
of that sadness that comes with the dilapidation of any place where people have
enjoyed themselves in days long past. It was almost as though I could feel
ghosts walking about the place (ghosts in the sense of memory, not in the
‘campfire story’ sense…) As I looked at the huge bar, I imagined what it might
have looked like, ten years previous. I closed my eyes and really tried to
imagine being there all those years ago and had the sense of being out on the
beach, waiting for someone, the music distant and the smell of fried food and
ice cream fading as the summer evening grew cooler. I can still close my eyes
and get the feeling, and I’m writing this four years on. It was such a powerful
atmosphere.
We moved further upstairs where the wind was
really taking hold and banging shutters against window frames. We spent another
ten or fifteen minutes exploring, but many of the rooms, despite being full of
smashed porcelain, creepy and mouldy furniture and buckled architecture, were
nowhere near as arresting as the impression the dancefloor had left on me. We
left through the front of the building, bypassing the sewer-like basement and
walked home dicussing the likenesses between the club and some of the rusting,
dingy environments in the ‘Silent Hill’ game series. (A discussion rendered
inevitable by the fact that UncleEggMan
and I had been playing it around that time) It was a great evening though,
and sadly, one not to be repeated. The Scirocco was torn down in the Spring
that followed and has since been replaced with… wait for it… luxury shoreside
housing, I shit you not. Some things seem too predictable to be plausible don’t
they?
When things like that happen, part of me feels
sad that the building is no longer there, that I wished maybe I could have at
least been there when they tore it all down. Part of me is also just plain
grateful that I had the chance to see it at all, particularly on such an
appropriately atmospheric evening. Nobody really seems to know anything about
the place now, but I can’t help thinking there are lots of people who could
remember spending a holiday in Seaton back in the mid-eighties, who may have
been there. It’s all gone now, it’s absence a sorrowful reminder of times
relentless march forward.
N.B. If you are reading this and have ever
holidayed in Seaton, Cornwall and may have visited the nightclub, then please E-Mail me, I’d
love to hear from you or see any photographs.