‘The Gallery’ at Turnmills was my ‘default setting’ for a Friday night. You know, those nights where you’re not really up for the full nine yards but still fancy a couple of drinks? Myself and my partner in crime Beccy would say “let’s just go to The Gallery for a quiet one” and then end up being mopped up off the dancefloor at half past eight in the morning by the cleaners. What was so good about the Gallery at Turnmills? Undoubtably the weird and wonderful venue, and the weird and wonderful crowd – one of my favourite dancefloor moments of all time was when a confused bloke turned to me and said “did you just hear what Jonathan Ross just said to me’ – or Tom the grumpy door picker giving out his top trumps cards (now marbles at the Ministry) who would always make me wait for ages whilst he ushered in ‘any members’ in the queue behind. Maybe it was the hours I spent with my nose pressed up against the tiny glass window of the DJ booth, or dancing for my life if it depended on it to the rudest DJ in the business and also Steve Lee’s incredible last sets. The Gallery’s Christmas parties at Turnmills were also stuff of legend. One year promoter Danny Newman and a gang of resident DJs and wrong ‘uns joined us in galavanting around London trying to prolong the party. “I know” said Danny at 10 am on Christmas Eve morning, “let’s go and see Peasy, he’ll still be up.” So we trundled up to Alex P’s house in several taxis and stood outside like a bunch of carol singers gone wrong, only for Alex to open the door in his underpants and croak ‘Oh piss off – I’ve just been on The Big Breakfast!”.