“The Roxy, tonight?”

Some say sobriety will stop you from dancing.

Not, however, at The Roxy. Welcome to the roughest pit stop of Tottenham Court Road; the underdog of the London club scene and the place where alcohol is hardly a necessity. You enter as Florence pounds the speakers and the floorboards clap with the beat. There’s a buzz in here tonight: there’s going to be a lot of broken toes and hearts to come.  

Already the drunken ones have forgotten their drinks – they’ve left them at the bar – and the sober ones have moved fast enough to claim the front stage. We’re dancing in secret here tonight: that’s why we’ve come. And for a moment the Londoners experience the unknown and the opposite of reality: we are now everybody’s friend and nobody’s stranger.

Is that the tube we feel beneath the floor? Or just the walls being built around the entrance? (The doors are closed now, people - enjoy the oblivion you’ve found yourself in.) And for a moment Florence goes quiet.

You catch his gaze across the floor; reality’s wiped clean amongst the sudden silence and mentality. “Just keep dancing and everything will be all right. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” You throw back another gulp of orange juice.

Florence snaps out her lull and the clapping continues. The chandeliers are shaking as the rhythm builds a force of its own and the dark and dirty interior flashes colour.

Then someone grabs you by the hand amongst the madness as a camera is crushed below care-free heels and newly bought shoes. We just keep dancing; feet against the floor.

Can you hear them?