Techno is like meat and cheese. I just looked blankly then turned to the empty dance floor ‘but I am feeling it, I like it, I want to dance’. Connie shook her head ‘it’s not ready yet.’ Music is hardly an oven dish but apparently it was from the deli section of your local supermarket. ‘Meat and cheese’ she repeated. The techno lovers- an assorted bunch of males littered the outskirts of the floor bopping up and down in a self conscious and awkward manner. Admittedly this is my favourite part of a club outing, of which I hadn’t been for a while and had clearly lost touch. I aim to make use of the dance space enjoy the freedom and if I am honest, the audience. But apparently the meat and cheese were not to be tasted.

‘Techno is like a good cheese’ she elaborated looking at her slightly fuzzled but deadpan expression I knew she was being sincere, if a little rich in her vocabulary. ‘…you have to wait on the meat’. The music builds and until it does so you may as well consider it an olive or side order of bread and therefore out of etiquette you must be patient and not eat….or in this case dance.

By 2am the rules had changed the cheesy meat dish had been devoured along with some fine wine and we were dancing the perspiration off our faces. Although actually a good wine would’ve been great- we found we are best to work with metaphors. As Connie’s hand outstretched for change from a 20 euro note for two drinks served in plastic cups remained empty.

Throughout the night the crowd mutated from the bespectacled parker wearers to what felt like a frat boys day out. Shirt collars protruded from Pringle jumpers, rolled up sleeves revealed Rolex watches, but the group seemed to be having a great time applauding the DJ every time he managed to move from one repetitive beat onto a slightly higher frequency. That- or the euphoric moment he sampled a ringing telephone. Connie in her painful slabs of reinforced wood or wedge sandals bowed out for a cigarette and after a few minutes dancing alone I opened my eyes to get the distinct impression that I was becoming the cheese in a French boy baguette. My exit was marked with the universal sign of sticking fingers down my throat. Time ticked away all the while and apparently the DJ’s had changed over to the main act- seamless!

The music pumped on as did the guy dancing behind Connie who decided to introduce her to some meat of his own.

Our exit was also marred by some bourgeois preener insisting we join his private party at one of Paris’s exclusive night spots on the Saturday. I had made efforts to keep walking but on taking a second to look back he was writing his number with liquid eyeliner onto Connie’s forearm. ‘His name was Cereal and he asked me if I liked cereal for breakfast’, so we learned that although the pick up lines are weak they still muster the strength to break the language barrier. We took a taxi back to the hotel and after prizing off my heeled instruments of torture I conked out face down.

I was glad that I had participated in the French techno experience. I had seen one of Europe’s most progressive DJ’s in Paris’ brand new clubbing venue of which I had been informed many Glaswegian clubbers would donate a body part for. I just know that I still prefer my cheese and meat to line my stomach as against to appreciating it in an audio format.