Pandoras Box

I sit here writing this nearly two months after my first, and so far only, visit. Drunken memories and embarrassing recollections of vast swathes of beautiful women, drunken hoards of zombified, River Island clad men and illicit (and regrettable) idiocy… suffice to say I had a good night and an even worse head the next morning. We ended the night here; by the time we arrived it was already teeming with people. Overcrowded, dark and musty, full of wall to wall aftershave, bad decisions and a near miss with the cloakroom (I finally retrieved my coat after an hour of confusion), on the surface it reads like a failure. Instead the sardine tin atmosphere, the soundtrack and the cheap house alcohol provided us with the perfect base point from which we were able to carry out our fully fledged twattery. The boys were worse than the girls (aren’t they always?) and our lot were worse than the rest. Downstairs was playing a selection of fantastic Motown hits; upstairs we were treated to 21^st Century indie and bad décor reminiscent of Tony Montana, replete with plastic yukka. I walked out in error once trying to find the cloakroom downstairs; colleagues were thrown out for urinating where they shouldn’t have. We would have ‘Put Our Hands Up for Detroit’ if we were able. Instead we had to make do with ‘Getting Down’ when James Brown told us. So much awkward shuffling on display but also so much fun, it comes thoroughly recommended.