Not in a traditional, "Give me your stupid-doggy Radley wallet and any piece of jewellery that isn't made by Claire's Accessories" way (besides which, they would be going away with very little jewellery...), but in a slightly more genteel way.
TheBloke (TM) and I had paid £20 between us to get into a West End club. More about this later, for those of you who know me well enough to know that the last time I went to a nightclub was on my 22nd birthday to go to School Disco. (After which a strange story involving the clocks going back, an illegal, farting minicab driver and an ill-advised kebab featured. But that's perhaps a story for another time.) So we'd paid up our £20 and went to take a seat at the bar. TheBloke (TM) having paid for entry, it was the least I could do to buy a round of drinks.
"What are you having?" I asked TheBloke (TM).
"A manly, manly beer, please," he replied. He only ever drinks manly beer when we're out. At home it's mostly cider or girly cocktails, ideally from a martini glass with a pink umbrella.
I ordered myself a single vodka and coke. Why not? This was a night out at a West End club. Knowing London drinks were on the pricey side, I got myself a tenner ready, not expecting a huge amount of change.
It was at this point, dear Ploggers, I was mugged.
"That'll be £14.50," the barmaid said. Stupefied, I handed over £15. She kept the change, but did present me with a receipt. The receipt showed my vodka and coke cost... wait for it... £9.50. Nine pounds and fifty earth pence for a fricking vodka and coke? Not knowing much about London's drug scene, but I wouldn't mind betting you could buy actual coke, as in cocaine for less.
Staying a little bit later, we thought we'd economise on the drinks and conservatively ordered a coke each. At £4.50 per coke, after we drunk up, we decided it was time to leave. Mostly because if we'd wanted another drink, we'd have had to have remortgaged Monty Cat.
And the name of the club? Stringfellows. The strip bar. Well, why not? We didn't get to see any clunge but there were plenty of boobs on show. I wouldn't recommend it though. With the amount of cash they squeezed out of us (even without the legendary private dances), I felt like I'd been repeatedly raped by Peter Stringfellow himself.
1 comment:
Wow! I'll remember this next time I start complaining about a cocktail costing $10 at a bar in Philly! A beer would only cost about $5. I guess it's cheaper to get drunk here! Pity I don't drink that much :-)
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