Category Archives: afterhours clubs in London

Rave Reviews: Cable Nightclub



Photo: Theo Sindica

          It’s after 8 on a Sunday morning, you’ve just left Fabric or whatever hole you’ve managed to crawl from, and you’re whacked out of your friggin skull wondering where the hell you’re gonna end up next. Going home is not an option. Not when you can’t read the bloody directions on a TFL map cuz all the words are scrambled in some unintellible jargon. You know it’s time for an afterparty when some kindly stranger has to help you make sense of the Jubilee line, lost in a snakey tangle of colour coded tubes like some cruel cosmic joke. Come on down to Cable! Inconspicuously tucked away beneath the tunnel at 33a Bermondsey Street near London Bridge, this joint is perhaps the most happening afterhours club in town. As a matter of fact, it’s pretty easy to walk right by and miss the damn thing if you don’t know where it is.

            At 9:30 a.m. I found myself waiting in line with an assorted cast of characters; clubbers, stoners, 9 – 5ers, semi-wastoids, and an odd selection of eurotramps. Two Russian girls dressed to the nines are chatting amongst themselves, passports in hand. A socialite wannabe tries to blag her way in ahead of everyone else, but the stone faced bouncer dude’s not having it. She is told to get in line like everyone else. Miss Cosmopolitan had no choice but to trot indignantly to the rear, while everyone snickers at the Blag-gate debacle. Cosmo tried to save a little face by sweet-talking a few guys in the queue but to no avail. So far, it looks like Cable espouses an equal opportunity ethic, which I find difficult to disparage. And they’re not letting people in without wristbands either. Fortunately my acquaintance and I managed to score some coveted wristies from a steward before we skipped Fabric. If your name’s not on the guestlist or you don’t have a wristband, you will be denied entry. Talk about strict door policies…

            As we approached the entrance we were greeted by two formidable slabs of security muscle who politely demanded to see our I.D. These guys looked like no-nonsense, seasoned old pros, or better yet, former porn star extras hustling extra dough on the side. My bag was then passed through a metal detector. One of my newly acquired party friends had a membership and tried to get me in for free, but to no avail. However, bouncer dude decided to make concessions for my cuteness at £8. After the airport security drill was over, we were given the all clear. “Welcome to Cable! Enjoy yourselves now,” chirped the hostess at coatcheck. 

            Banging house greeted my ears in the main room. A well stocked bar conducted brisk trade to my right while revelers grooved to pulsating rhythms on the dance floor. Cable is packed at 10 in the morning. Oddly enough, it seems rather small despite the 1000 strong capacity. I attribute that to my currently rampant state of blissful inebriation. Evidently, this is the place to get your afterhours freak on in L-ville. All the cool party peeps from Brick Lane and elsewhere are here, smiling and having a wicked time. “Hey man, long time no see! So this is where you’ve been lately.” Incidentally, Cable offers an interesting mix of mature ravers and clubbers; no kids or riff raff up in here. People are friendly, outgoing, and easy to talk to, so you don’t have to worry about catching wallpaper syndrome if you show up solo. And all you tabloid freaks will rejoice to know that sometimes the occasional celebrity can be spotted getting a slice of underground action.

            A semi-swanky mezzanine hosts an additional bar/chill out lounge, but the real action’s to be had downstairs. Louis Vega style deep house is swinging in the back room, making us nightowlers go nuts. I clambered up onto the mini stage facing the DJ booth and danced my ass off. The über friendly vibe and warehouse atmosphere makes Cable an absolute delight for hardcore ravers. They also cater to drum and bass, grime and dubstep with events featuring Metalheadz, Chew the Fat!, Shogun Audio and more. I can’t recall who the heck was spinning but let’s just say they effing killed it. Sunday mornings never felt so good! At this urban audiochurch beneath Bermondsey’s arch, you could get twisted ‘til the cows come home. Sometime in the afternoon, I decided to call it quits before I passed out from overnight exertion. Apart from losing the back cover for my mobile and barfing orange juice at London Bridge station, I had the wickedest time. For those of you craving the ultimate afterhours fix, Cable ties it all together nicely.


– Get on the guestlist or obtain a wristband ahead of time if you can.

– Remember to bring your I.D.

– Blagging’s a bust unless you happen to be a rockstar, superfamous, or super hot.

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 Copyright © 2012 Frankie Diamond. All rights reserved. Excerpts of less than 200 words may be published to another site, including a link back to the original article. This article may not be reproduced in its entirety and posted to another site without the express permission of the author.