Where The Cool Kids Go

KoKo, Camden.

Friday night, it's cold and the queue is round the block. An hour previous a friend had text me to let me know she and one other mate were safely nestled amongst the scenster kids and my group must rush our pints and run to join them.

So we finish our pints and leave the busy but nicely buzzing World's End and make our way down the road. We found them less than a third of the way up the queue, hunched up from the cold and gazing wistfully at the gates they were no where near reaching. At least when you reach the gates you feel you're getting somewhere.

Despite blatantly queue jumping myself, I became something of a Queue Nazi within ten minutes of arriving. Any groups of mates less than five groups infront of me were not allowed to let their friends go before my group. One guy tried to bribe me with a can of Becks. Had it of been a Carling, he might of had a deal. But Carling? Nah mate. Get to the back. You ain't welcome here. His giggling girlfriend did nothing to help him as he slowly plodded down the road. I didn't feel bad.

I love Camden. I really do. I don't tend to wander too far away from The Dublin Castle, World's End or Lock Tavern, but those are all I really need, no? Probably not. But I live in the deepest SE London and am ignorant to most places beyond Waterloo. Give me a break.

One thing Camden does do to me, though, is bring home the fact that I am no longer a teenager. Yes, I may have only just graduated from teens to twenty something, but in an area thriving with The Cool Kids sometimes I do have to take a moment to remind myself that, you know, I'm alright. I've got my mandatory battered Converse - in three different colours, no less, I can wear a tie without fear and my grey checked bomber jacket has a Sparklehorse badge pinned proudly to the front pocket.

The fact that I have to remind myself I'm alright is the actual problem. Not the feeling of total averagness these kids infect me with. Why am I marking myself up against a girl of seventeen who is clearly dressed head to toe in Topshop, with hair that doesn't seem to have been brushed since 1999 and make up Amy Winehouse would shy away from? Who is the real Cool Kid here? And, more to the point, who gives a fuck? No one is judging me because I'm wearing a tatty hoodie with more holes than buttons and a hairstyle my mum would have been proud of in 1983 - which is completely unintentional, I must stress - so why am I looking to judge them?

Probably because, for the first time in my young life, I'm starting to experience Growing Old. And it's only going to get worse the more birthdays I go through.

Anyway, back to the KoKo queue. We gave up. We're not that desperate to bouce around in a sweaty club so packed you can't even lift your overpriced can of Fosters to your mouth without getting most of it in your hair.

We got in a cab and boogied on down at the far more comfortable Borderline. Where everyone is welcome. And most are over 20. Hurrah!