Friday night, in all our wisdom FG and I decided to go out with some colleagues from my work. We ended up at Tiger Tiger on Regent Street, upstairs at the bar.
It was a lovely evening - we had a few drinks, we laughed, we talked. And then we were amazed. Three chaps arrived, utterly assured of their prowess on the dance floor. We were, as I heard an Indian chappie say recently "smacked in the gob" by their antics on the dancefloor. We were amazed. Astounded. But not at all jealous.
I don't know if you have seen the "No bad dancing with Bacardi" advert but these chaps must have been participants in this advert. I kept looking around me for hidden cameras, sure that this was a piss-take. But alas, no, it wasn't. It was some ancient mating ritual brought back to life from the deepest recesses of Cro-Magnon Man's inner soul, and it mixed with too much booze and their own machismo - they were sure all women there wanted them, right there, right then. They were girating, doing the splits, grabbing girls as they walked past, rubbing against them - it was mind-boggling to watch. I was waiting for David Attenborough's voice to appear over my right shoulder, in my ear and it would have gone sumat like this:
"Here we have the mating ritual of the Drunken Office Worker. Watch him display his obvious masculinity by flexing his muscles as the young females move past. He realises that the more exotic the moves he makes, the better his chances are for capturing one of these delectible (sic) birds of the West End. Just look at those moves - unconcerned about his own image he would do whatever it takes for that necessary brush-up against one of the females. It is astounding. He has no sense of shame (or dress-sense or personal hygiene), so assured is he that tonight is the night."
As my one colleague's husband said when he came back from the little boy's room "I haven't seen so many nobs in one place, in all my life." He turned to look at us as we stared at him, smacked in the gob. He gestured to the dancing loons and whispered. "There was no one in the mens toilets, I am talking about this lot."
We understood completely.
2 comments:
You paint a very gruesome picture of this place, Lizzy.
I'm thinking that there's a general rule of thumb that applies to nightclubs the world over, not just in London. And that is, the more strict the dress code - and the more rigorously it is applied by the gorillaz on the door - the greater the number of tryhard dickheads therein.
I bet the music they were playing could be described as 'chart dance' too - plenty of Pussycat Dolls et al, oui?
I'd tend to gravitate more towards the jeans & trainers venues, myself.. the ones with (a) less knobs, and (b) better DJs...
Hi birthday boy
Well, the music was more rap...dance toons, y'know, init?
But, it was an interesting experience, but I think next time we will choose to go somewhere else, completely different.
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