Ten o’clock on Thursday night, they file in one by one, paying three pounds at the door for entry to the club until four. Mostly students, they give off the non-judgemental elitist vibe that only true hipsters can. Richord Stone, 20, a local student, is a case example: With his hand-painted t-shirt and red desert scarf combo and washed-out green mohawk waxed to perpendicular perfection, he saunters in with the easy confidence of someone who truly belongs. “I know the band,” he explains. Of course he does. Everyone at Monkey knows the band.

Tonight the band in question is the Swansea Bay Dockers Union. They are playing their very last gig tonight in support of the University’s charity group, Discovery. Many people are here to support Discovery’s fundraising endeavours, but the majority are unaware of the charity. Frances Kirk, 21, although oblivious to the charitable side of the evening, is enthusiastic about the venue, “What do I think of the night? It’s rockin’! I think the Monkey is a really good, funky place! It’s really laid back, chilled out, funky, ace, and there’s really good artwork all over the place! It’s the perfect place to encourage students to part with their money.”

In spite of the somewhat tepid reception, the volunteers present consider the night a success. Hannah Preedy, 26, a support worker for the charity, smokes on the lower outdoor terrace. She pulls her puffy orange coat closer around her long patchwork linen dress to protect against the considerable cold. Bubbly and red-eyed, she explains the purpose of the evening, “Partly to raise money and awareness of the projects we do, and partly to have a fucking good time!”

Good times seem to be had in abundance at Monkey. Very few people here know of Discovery’s agenda, and it is difficult to explain the goals of the charity over the blaring Joy Division, Sleater Kinney, and Garbage the green-haired DJ spins downstairs. Upstairs, the band warms up under a rainbow strobe light, playing to an empty room and a sound technician. Outside, student writers shout complicated yet meaningful poetry, struggling to be heard over the thumping bassline that shakes the premises. Poems are interspersed with environmental awareness speeches by an earnest young artist with a plaited beard and an allotment.

Past the screaming poets, up a narrow case of wrought iron stairs, is the new Chill Out Room. It is here where the real action takes place this evening. Alex, Sophie and Jess, three girls each representing a separate decade of vintage clothing from Biba to ‘80s punk, are followed up the stairs by two strange men. One, a smooth-talking black man in a mustard-coloured corduroy suit jacket looks as if he, too, belongs, while the second, a short, angry-looking man in a shell suit, does not. A scuffle ensues after one man gropes Sophie while the other starts hitting Alex. Jess runs down stairs through the poetry reading and shouts for help. Bouncers appear in record time, removing the men before anyone is seriously hurt. Alex is visibly shaken, tears welling up behind her thick eyelash extensions. “He was horrible!” She sobs. “He hit me! And he called me such awful names!” Although seriously molested, Sophie remains calm. This episode won’t keep her from coming back. “I love the Monkey bar.” She says, lighting a cigarette, “I’ve only been in Swansea for three weeks and it’s already one of my favourite places. It’s my new local.”

The bouncers are very good at Monkey. The owners know there has to be a limit to the influence drugs have on their evenings. Kindly Rastafarians, such as Gareth Miles, 35, are welcomed. “I like the Monkey for several reasons, one of which will remain unsaid.” He laughs, “But mostly it’s because there’s a decent variety of stuff, you know, they don’t play the same-old same-old you get around here. Plus they let me take the mic once a month for reggae night.”

The more obvious pill poppers are removed, however, such as the disoriented woman who was gyrating against the DJ booth for the better part of an hour. It’s a difficult balance to maintain, but in spite of the occasional incident, Monkey remains the only place in Swansea where the hipsters can chill out with a glass of pomegranate juice or fair trade coffee, or enjoy the inspirational graffiti in the blue-lit toilets: “Be who you are becoming, not who you were. Experience is growth.”

Jessica Ramthun