Why making it out to some of Sheffield's brilliant nightclubs in the 1980s was like the Grand National for me

If you’d asked me in January 2020 about going for a drink in town, I’d could probably take or leave it. I’d have to be in the mood.

Ask me again in 2021 about going for a drink you’d get a different answer after months of being stuck at home!

But in the early 1980s, I didn’t need any excuse to go out.

To me, going out back then as a youngster – maybe a bit too young – was like The Grand National, with masses of hurdles to overcome.

Firstly getting past mom and dad who would ask: “Where are you going at this time?”

My nonsensical reply would normally be "nowhere.”

The next hurdle would be tapping my dad up for a bit of early pocket money. Thankfully I was normally able to squeeze a little bit out of him.

After that it was a case of getting the bus into town.

I would get dropped off opposite Cavells or The Blue Bell – as it was then – on the High Street.

Straight into the Blue Bell where I’d hopefully bump into a few friends.

And from there, we’d go a few paces up the High street to the legendary nightclub, Crazy Daisy.

Now this was like the Becher's Brook of obstacles to clear.

The key, was the approach.

I’d casually jog down the steep stairs like I had been coming for years and make eye contact with the doormen to show your confidence, but not too long as to attract attention, then confidently breeze in. It never failed!

In the late 70s and early 80s,The New Romantic era was in full swing.

Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet, and of course The Human League, rang out for all to hear.

The New Romantic fans would enter the club with perfectly coiffed hair, makeup immaculately done and special attention paid to their mascara and lipstick.

Beautiful white blouses with elegant frills on the collar and cuffs, finished off with black leather heels.

Absolutely gorgeous, and was just the men, the women seemed quite dowdy in comparison.

1.30am soon came round, which was a good time to go.

Back to the hurdles. The Hole in the road was a lovely place in the day .

It was a place where people would meet, children would clammer to look at the fish in the fish tank, old men would sit and puff on their pipes and watch the world go by.

However by night, it became an entirely different place.

At times, it could be a place where only the brave and fool hardy dared to tread.

A place where you might have to be Linford Christie or Muhammad Ali – your choice.

From there, it was a short walk to Fitzalan Square to grab a taxi.

However, first you’d have to find one, preferably with a couple of friends to help reduce the fare.

With that hurdle cleared, all that stood between you and the finish line was sneaking back into the house at gone 2 o’clock in the morning without mom or dad noticing.

Was it worth it? All that just to casually tell your school friends you were out downtown Saturday night?

In these confusing and worrying times, local journalism is more vital than ever. Thanks to everyone who helps us ask the questions that matter by taking out a digital subscription or buying a paper. We stand together. Nancy Fielder, editor.