With my French heritage and creative circles, I was steeped in a culture that viewed indulgence in drinking and nightlife as markers of sophistication and freedom. In my young adulthood, a touch of debauchery symbolised a life that was sensual and authentic. There was a charm in walking the line between elegance and recklessness – it felt like a way to truly own who you were. Alcohol was a gateway to accessing an unfiltered, bolder side of oneself, or so I believed. Weighed down by vulnerability and a need for approval, it felt like a tempting confidence boost – though I can see now how deceiving it was. With friends who shared a similar mindset, living in excess just became the norm.
Substance abuse and drinking are a well-known plague in the scene (and beyond), and while it’s not about judging, it’s clear that most people are trapped in a cycle of enabling it, caught in their own insecurities and addictions. It’s only with hindsight that I see how damaging it really is. Addiction – and the denial that often surrounds it – has a strong grip in my family, leaving behind a legacy of pain and loss. In my experience, many artists and musicians on both sides of the Channel are drawn to nihilism, with alcohol at the heart of it. I came to believe that chaos – and the alcohol fuelling it – was the only way to experience real intensity and fun. The rush of pushing limits felt edgy and alluring, while anything structured and measured seemed suffocating. Looking back, I try to cut myself some slack, but I can’t help wincing at how I used to romanticise it all.
We often hear it’s hard to feel relaxed or social without alcohol since we’re so conditioned to it – and I’m no different. Over the years, I became skilled at pointing fingers and blaming my environment for unhealthy behaviours and cravings. It took me a long time to realise that only I could make the changes I wanted in my life. I eventually came to terms with the fact that what started as a genuine love for the arts and music had turned into a convenient excuse to justify harmful behaviour. Somehow, it seemed manageable for me to stay “functional” – juggling social life, work, and even a bit of a healthy routine. It’s all too easy to convince ourselves we’ve got it under control. At least, I’ll speak for myself – denial is a hell of a drug.
Given that background, sobriety wasn’t a quick fix, even after I made the commitment. It took a few tries before it really stuck, and I’m still figuring it out. Giving up booze didn’t immediately lead to freedom or joy around others. Confidence didn’t just appear overnight. Luckily, being new to Glasgow’s scene meant I didn’t feel the pressure to show up at certain events or hang around certain crowds. Early on, my partner introduced me to Good Clean Fun nights, which he swore by. Though I respected his choice, I assumed these nights were just for recovering addicts, a cringe stand-in for the fun they couldn’t balance. It took me a while to warm up to the idea and see them as something worth checking out. Little did I know.
When I finally caved and gave Good Clean Fun a shot, I was convinced I’d miss the “good stuff” a typical night out usually has. Well, it was clear I’d been blinded by my rigid beliefs, and before I knew it, all my boxes were ticked. It’s one of those moments where you realise, “Right, this is what it’s actually about.“
The dragon room has an epic vibe – spacious dance floor cushioned with Persian rugs for the wild revellers, strong tunes, golden lighting, and cosy spots to settle in. You can tell they really thought this through. Homemade, delish food to share, bean chairs to slump in for chatting, flirting, or recharging. People are focused on having a blast while being attentive to their needs. I had no choice but to throw my hands up and give in to the vibe. At first, it was tough pretending to dance like everyone else – confident and carefree – without the usual kick to hide behind. But after a few low points, I started to change my perspective. Turns out, partying doesn’t have to be about numbing out; it’s actually way more of a rush to just boogie into the night, no filter required. (I know, haters will hate)
Being able to have fun sober initially made me feel more exposed, but it also filled me with pride, as I could finally embrace my true self and natural ability to love and be loved, without relying on the usual deadly crutches. Sobriety often brings this fear of becoming “boring” or outgrowing the nightlife scene. But there, I’m part of a community that’s redefining what it means to go out, dance, and be social.
Respect to the crew!
