26/05/2026
Hey it’s a Vicky Video Dancin’ Diary – where I knock off from professional filming, and share glimpses of my life, albeit with slightly shaky camera work.
The late May bank holiday weekend was heatwave madness…and one of the best of my life.
Wasn’t in Withington this weekend – we were at large in the city. Sorry Withy, for I two-timed thee.
Now then. I love to DANCE. I’ve always loved to dance, since my brother took me to Cream when I was 18, and Pete Tong played Professional Widow at the precise moment I wobbled onto the dance floor for the first time.
From Cream, I progressed to Gatecrasher, Hard Times and especially Sankeys. Oh Sankeys.
When I moved back to Manchester for the FOURTH TIME (maybe it should be called Magnetic Manchester), the sole reason was to carry on dancing, and to do as much of it as possible.
Manchester’s original dance roots have grown and matured into the mightiest of oak trees, with rave squirrels necking nuts, disco balls spinning from the branches, and lasers firing from the leaves.
And it turns out that clubbing in an unexpected May Bank Holiday heatwave is one of the finest feelings on planet Earth, and possibly in the solar system.
On Saturday, our lovely neighbours invited us to a BBQ in Platt Fields Park.
We’re experts on the sun movement in the park, because it really makes my disco balls ache when we’ve got to keep moving the chairs round as the dusky evening shadows rotate and elongate across the grass.
Our favourite spot is in the church field, right in the corner, because you get sunset behind that elegant terracotta spire, with the rays filtering through the slats in the belfry, but you also get the last dregs of sunshine.
We call ourselves the Platt Fields SAS (Sundown Appreciation Society), and we really do reckon that, with its wide-open vistas, Platt Fields is one of the premium sun traps in the city.
On to Bank Holiday Sunday.
We originally had tickets to a freebie festival at Freight Island, but after arriving there in the afternoon, tempers flaring slightly in the sticky heat after my boyfriend refused to buy a new hat because his had bike oil on it, we saw the queue was about an hour long, and it was already a one-in-one-out situation.
So after another extra-heated discussion huddled in a shady corner, we trekked back across town, where supersonic DJ collective Supernature were putting on their legendary bank holiday freebie at Joshua Brooks.
We accidentally upgraded to an Uber Comfort, and were delighted to find we could set the temperature in the car BEFORE getting in. Of course I set it to CHILLY, and we arrived in style in a black Mercedes E Class.
After getting papped on the kerb (possibly a false memory), we barrelled into JB’s and walked into the most heavenly dance floor of all time.
The sun, especially in Manchester, has an effect on us, like a springer spaniel that hasn’t been to the park for a month, suddenly hearing WALKIES and going completely bonkers.
After a long grey winter, and an even longer greyer May, Manchester party people were let off the leash, and were not coming back. Until Monday night at least.
After arriving in a heatwave huff, and announcing “I don't want to dance” – the heat can do funny things to a perimenopausal lady – it took about six seconds before the fire ignited my feet, and I didn’t stop dancing until 6am.
Nothing like raving in super sweaty sunshine to clear the blues away.
As you can see from the shonky-wonky clips I took, the dance floor had gaps on it. Sometimes the venue is so rammed you’re wedged between shoulders, b***s and bums…not entirely unpleasant, but I do prefer a bit of space for my rave-squirrel thing.
We stayed for the last tune, then headed next door to Yes Bar.
This is probably my favourite venue in town – three vast floors, experimental DJs, an elegant roof terrace, and did I mention air con?
Kudos to the DJ (I do find female DJs play the happier, more feminine side of dance music), who played our request – Groove Is in the Heart – which got the whole terrace singing and gyrating.
DJs – more Deee-Lite please.
Unsure of what to do next, we were offered tickets to THE NEW SANKEYS by a lovely lady called Gill. Her pals had bailed, and she kindly gave us her three tickets.
Myself and bezzie Danielle are OG Sankeys monsters, and hadn’t yet been to the new venue. The free tickets felt like a blessing from the Flying Disco Ball Monster (too hot for spaghetti).
Elated, we made the walk there, choosing not to Uber so we could enjoy the city in the heatwave.
A rosy-red Saharan sunset blushed off the buildings, people were dancing on balconies, and that surge in Vitamin D made everyone weirdly, beautifully friendly.
We arrived at Sankeys to be bathed in the familiar WAFT and OOMPH of their world-class soundsystem.
Nowhere sounded as good as original Sankeys, and I’ve craved that low-end pressure and clarity for years, comparing every rig to those hazy crazy nights in Beehive Mill.
Sad to say, most sound systems hurt my ears nowadays, especially when DJs crank them up way beyond their capacity (DJs - look after your punter’s ears! Distortion, hearing damage, and people screaming in your ear should not be part of a night out. Health and Safety lesson over).
Felix da Housecat played a blinder, but we left around 1am, because even veteran clubbers eventually hit the limit of their legs.
Also, my disco balls had reached unprecedented levels of swelling – I’ve never been so sweaty in my life.
No photos from Sankeys, as they have a no-phones policy. They stick a heavy-duty sticker over your phone, which doubles as a pretty good fridge memento.
Back home for afters, soothing house until 6am.
A sweaty disco nap, then woken by the sun for what must have been the hottest May day on record.
Felt groovy all day, pottering around in nowt but my knickers.
Didn’t even go outside – I could feel the heat perfectly through our IKEA solar-block curtains.
Bed at a sensible time on Monday, with only a little bit of Tuesday dread.
I think it’ll hit me properly on Thursday.
In the meantime: meditate, hydrate, and crawl under a cool damp paving slab with the woodlice.
And that, Manchester, is how to do a bank holiday weekend.
Bonhomie, generosity, unity, joy and love.
And buckets and buckets of fragrant, club-fresh sweat.
Perfection.
