Clubs on film: 10 of the best parties from the big screen

Door policy: Well, first you need to find the place as it’s hidden in some ultra cool unmarked meat-processing factory. But once you get there, everyone seems friendly enough and the lack of a queue is certainly a bonus. Simply yell at the doorman and he’ll let you in with a welcoming smile, the kind that makes you feel like nothing could possibly go wrong.

Atmosphere: Mind-melting strobes, cyberpunk haircuts and the fact it sounds like Sven Vath at Love Parade in 2000 means this place is pumping! If there’s one thing I’ve learned about this place, it’s that blood is super sexy. A little weird, but sexy nonetheless. Now if only we could just find the bar…

Soundtrack: Techno and aciiiiieeeeddddd.

Resident DJ: DJ Pierre.

Average punter: Surly, hedonistic and possess some really pointy teeth. So just your typical Berliner?

Do: Try the blood, it’s free!

Don’t: Turn up in a heavy black duster jacket wearing a bulletproof vest and rocking a samurai on your back before proceeding to brutally incinerate everyone in the club. They don't like vegetarians that much either.

Door policy: Dress down to dance, it gets sweaty in here. Also Tuesdays are girl’s night.

Atmosphere: Hot, spaced out, colourful and a healthy dose of visual and auditory hallucinations. But that could just be the ecstasy…

Soundtrack: Big beat, electroclash, nu-rave and some psychadelia thrown in for good measure.

Resident DJ: Erol Alkan

Average punter: Rich midtown kids whose overbearing parents force them to go out to clubs, take drugs and have sexual dalliances with members of the same sex. Fuck you, mom, leave me alone!

Do: Go with a friend.

Don’t: Go there in the middle of a schizophrenic episode.

Door policy: It’s a busy club and queues go down the road on a big night. But look for the doorman with blonde dreads, tell him you work for Mixmag and you’ll be in with a massive, northern grin.

Atmosphere: Voted the best club atmosphere in the whole of Wales, by Mixmag no less. We never did get round to that double-page spread though…

Soundtrack: A 'Now That's What I Call House Music' CD from 1999.

Resident DJ: Owner, Pablo Hassan’s cousin, Carl Cox.

Average punter: “NICE ONE BRUVA!!”

Do: Blow steam out of your head like a screaming kettle, talk codshit to strangers all night, lose the plot on the dancefloor, get more spaced out than Neil Armstrong and wax the £73 in your back pocket.

Don’t: Look at Koop's girl. He doesn't take kindly to it.

Door policy: Unlike their peers on the East Coast, Hot Traxx is open to all manner of people. Just chuck a little sparkle into your outfit, say things like "groovy" and "love ya baby" and you'll have no problem.

Atmosphere: Hot Traxx might have played disco and had it's heyday in the 70s. But it didn't have the glamour of Studio 54 or the musical taste of Paradise Garage. No, what Hot Traxx had was porn producers and plenty of them. For a true, authentic taste of LA sleaze, Hot Traxx was the one.

Soundtrack: Disco, disco and more disco.

Resident DJ: DJ Harvey's long lost American uncle, DJ Bobby.

Average punter: Most worked in the porn industry but there is also all manner of wannabe actors, rollerbladers and bus boys on the way to becoming MASSIVE stars. If you wanted to be seen...it probably wasn't best to go to Hot Traxx.

Do: Have a boogie on the Saturday Night Fever knock-off dancefloor.

Don’t: Drink the knock-off champagne.

Door policy: It helps to look tough. People from the Czech Republic take their clubbing super seriously

Atmosphere: From some angles, Yorgi’s is your typical American interpretation of a European nightclub: Cages full of dancers, strobe lighting and musclebound henchman acting as bouncers. But what makes this club special is it’s enormous fucking tesla coils! Seriously, is that even safe? These things are just blasting bolts of lightning out of ravers’ heads and everyone’s cool with it? OK.

Soundtrack: Techno, hi-NRG, Eurodance and a healthy dose of gabba when the right DJs roll into town.

Resident DJ: Tiesto.

Average punter: Muscle-tee bound, balded headed, extreme athletes partying with … whoever hangs here just wants to listen to some ‘techno beats’ with a vodka in hand, oh, and chain smoke. Yeah, you could still smoke in nightclubs in 2002!

Do: Hang out with club owner and local businessman Yorgi. He’s got some great stories about his comrades in soviet Russia.

Don’t: Hang out with Yorgi, a criminal mastermind responsible for several murders.

Door policy: The only doors are in your mind, man. Open them and you shall see the true powers of the cosmos…By the way, my uncle gave me some mushrooms if you are interested.

Atmosphere: Earth! Fire! Barefeet! This spot is heaven for anyone who thinks Glastonbury's stone circle has lost it's original aura. Seriously though, do not lose your friends though because the signal that far under the earth is just atrocious.

Soundtrack: Psytrance.

Resident DJ: Goa Gil.

Average punter: Considering the human race is on the edge of extinction as we know it, the average attendee of a Zion Rave is actually a very positive person. Here they are, faced with the destruction of everything they love, living underground in a society where you can’t even get your hands on a Red Bull, and all these people want to do is dance. The movie was shit, but this scene know what it’s all about.

Do: Have a bang on the massive primal drums that people appear to have manufactured from scrap metal.

Door policy: Being a male is frowned upon, so if you’re bringing a bunch of sausages to this party, it’s going to be a hard no, bro. Why else do you think Tom Cruise and Jamie Foxx had to go in separately?

Atmosphere: Lifeless. And I don’t just mean because everyone gets shot. Because its run by the Korean mafia, drinks are $17, the place is so quiet you can hear the rustling of ice in the multitude of vodka sodas and the security presence is more intense than fabric on a bad night. I mean, bumping into someone is one thing but breaking a guys legs while he’s not looking? Tom, that’s a bit much, mate.

Music policy: Remember when rock crossed over with electronic music and neither rock fans nor electronic music fans cared because it was a blatant cash grab by an industry that had started to excessively implode on it’s self, leaving the music sounding cheesy as fuck? Yeah well it’s that, thrown in with some trance and the Mission Impossible 2 soundtrack.

Resident DJ: It would make sense if it was Com Truise. But it’s not. It’s a Paris Hilton’s stand-in.

Average punter: The LA socialite runs rampant at Club Fever. High-quality gak in their Tom Ford wallets and Louis Vuitton purses go hand-in-hand with the dead look they get in their eyes when someone shows them they have more Instagram followers.

Do: Avoid this club.

Don’t: Go here (look, they can’t all be winners).

Door policy: With it's pool, spa, sauna and many, many futile bodyguards, the Red Circle Club is actually members only so if you ain't got that card, you ain't getting in.

Atmosphere: Honestly everyone here is so fucked. Keanu Reeves brutally murders, like, three people on the dancefloor (including shooting a man in the face) and no one cares. Alfie Allen, wearing only a towel, runs through the crowd and no one blinks an eye.

Music policy: We're talking moody electronica where gangsters can frolic with eastern European prostitutes in the baths downstairs and then some seriously wobbly basslines anchored by thudding drums upstair.

Resident DJ: A revolving cast of Le Castle Vania, Herve and Bloody Beetroots

Average punter: Leather jackets, neon glowsticks and bad dress shirts stand out in this club. I also assume everyone is wearing loafers.

Do: Get down to the pools. It's mood lighting makes it easy to avoid getting shot by an enraged retired hitman hellbent on vengeance for his dead dog.

Don’t: Get in the way of the enraged retired hitman hellbent on vengeance for his dead dog.