Falmouth seems like a nicey-nicey, hippy-hippy kind of holiday destination that’s full of artisan shops that £50,000-a-year Londoners like to patronise in the summer so they can feel good about supporting the economy of a deprived area. But that’s not to say it has no nightlife.
OK, so its nightlife is habitually depleted as pubs and clubs go out of business (Nancy’s, Remedies, The Underground, the crappy, seedy basement place that was open til 4am only to be replaced by another club that got shut down) or dodgy owners run off without paying their bills (Q Bar #NeverForget), but there’s quite a bit going on for a town that mostly shuts down in the winter months. Including, but not limited to, 3am fights in Subway over which sandwich to have.
OK, so one of my biggest regrets about my uni years (and trust me, I could write a book about them) is that I was too miserable and friendless to visit this place more. Do you like cocktails, Tekken and choosing your own soundtrack for a night? You need to get down to this place pronto. Unless you have Tekken at your house, have Spotify on your laptop and can make your own cocktails. But where’s the fun in staying in the house all day (says this semi-perpetual hermit).
I primarily remember Toast not for being a memorable venue, but for its memorable themed cocktails, the Jaffa Cake one most of all. Their tagline is lying about it being a place to go dancing, though. It’s one of those places where you could dance, but no one does because everyone’s talking on the sidelines.
Books and beer. It’s basically a reading room with a bar. I hate beer and I very definitely hated books when I was at uni, so I don’t know why the hell I enjoyed going there. But I did.
Big pub with an outdoor terrace overlooking the water. ‘Nough said. (Although watch out for drunk student boys whipping out their willies over the water to have a cheeky piss. Ugh.)
Climbing Jacobs Ladder is the best excuse to have a drink I can think of. You have to walk up 111 steep steps to get there. It’s good exercise, but also mildly traumatic if you’re as unfit as me.
6. Q Bar [RIP]
Oh Q Bar. Lovably and deliberately scuzzy, we loved your adventurous shots (not least of all the flaming Cookie Monster), your graffiti-flecked walls and your upstairs floor cushions. You were taken from us too soon. We will remember you.
7. The Kings Head [RIP]
One visit. One glowing, radioactive pitcher of cocktail that got me so drunk I can’t remember what the hell it was called. We will never know, because it closed down a year after I graduated.
Oh come on, it’s a student town and no-one has any money. If I didn’t include Spoons I’d only be lying to you and to myself.
Sticky floor. Stinking Bishop-level cheese blasting out of the speakers. A fiver’s entrance. Club I is everything that’s so bad it’s great about clubbing. It’s also where I had my first ever properly good clubbing experience. Unfortunately, it was also my last ever clubbing experience at uni. It took nearly three years to have fun on a big night out.
I really did do uni wrong.
10. Remedies (in a so-bad-it’s-bad way) [RIP]
Sticky floor. Sticky men. An excess of WKD in the fridges. Poles. Cages. Garish condom dispenser in the toilets. Actual club music, if that doesn’t contort the word ‘. Remedies was the biggest club in Falmouth, and it was the worst nightmare of any self-respecting human. The owners should have handed out a flowchart to revellers on entry:
‘Sadly’ it closed down a few years ago, only to be reopened in some other guise. I really, really, REALLY hope they disinfected it from top to bottom first.