Back when I was a wee slip of a lad, when I had only just cobbled together enough money to buy myself a fake "European Driving Permit" I found on Ask Jeeves, the places to be were not the souped-up pool halls and tropical basement bars of East London, but the midweek indie discos of the West End.You'd hear stories about men who went to a different one of these clubs every night. Near-mythical winklepickered lotharios who tore up the sticky dancefloors to the pulsating sounds of the first Rakes album, embroiled in their own, feverish delusions of bildungsroman when really they all lived with their parents in Streatham and worked off their hangovers in retail admin departments. But they didn't care, for those four nights a week they were superstars. To an impressionable 16-year-old, these men were gods, and I worshipped in the shadow of their nascent lager bellies tiring of life the dark side of the drainpipe waistband.Read the rest on VICE…