On approach, I did wonder whether this establishment was the right destination for my friends and I. With the multiple police vans parked outside, I knew we were in safe hands.
Gone are the days of free passes, the bouncers we knew no longer work the doors and the PR girls are a clipboard away from the Boardroom.
Queuing isn’t beyond me, in fact this is an excellent vantage point to tell my tale.
The glaringly obvious point is the amount of flesh on display. I often wonder if this is to save hassle at the end of an evening.
Dimples and wrinkles are everywhere to see from the waist down. Streaks and paw prints on the backs of thighs and bottoms can be seen even in a winter’s night, some things don’t change.
And it’s not just the ladies bottoms that are being thrusted in my face in this queue. Men too, showing off and it’s not too thrilling. I’m half-tempted to give them a tug and tuck them in, as I do my 3 year-old.
The policemen on duty are straddling the barrier, watching the 18 year olds go in and out. Of course, they’re all legal.
Staggering past in silver, sparkly, bejewelled monstrosities, there’s not a coat adorned on any of the frames. Strip on entering the club, but to freeze on arrival lacks maturity.
The last time I was in a Gangster Paradise, I did enjoy watching the grinding of the eager dancers. That was until some snake-hipped youngster mistook me for a pole or a trunk, gyrating his latest dance move on my leg before I shook him off like a dog.
Standing in the Circus, wearing one of those garments, known as a coat, complete with gloves and scarf, well it is December, heels at 5 inches, an LBD, pale skin, tired eyes, and belonging to the Sex in the City Generation, long before Towie and Made in Chelsea, I didn’t feel we were complementing our companions in the queue.
Sure enough, one look by the sparrow fart bouncer confirmed this. Each one of my companions, professionals in their own right, were dealt the blow, “Not tonight ladies!”
But I’ve come to do some uninterrupted dancing. When pressed on his decision, he insisted that one of us had had a little too much. Funny that, having arrived at this point, I’d had a little too much too.
Too much flesh, too much tan, too much makeup, I couldn’t agree more, they are too much.
But too much to drink, hardly. Too much or too much clothes?
Whilst law and order and quality control took over the door, the three stooges from Her Majesty’s Service watched idly on. The sparrowfart is judge and jury over fashion, age, too much and too little.
As I spend my life arguing about putting too much in one’s mouth, too much washing, too much to do, I was too tired to argue my way into this barnyard. Disappointed in the lack of dancing, the Sex and the City generation were sent on their way.