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Scotch of St. James

WORDS N PIX: Anna Christine

ARRIVAL
11:00pm

Pull up to Masons yard.
Hop out Uber.
On your right you
pass The White Cube
and think

Cor, London really does have it all, doesn’t it?

Carry on straight for 1.5 minutes
and reach your destination.

scotch3 (1)

UNDERWHELMED?

Yeah, you could be.
With its
black awning and
no sign post-
Scotch doesn’t look
like much from
the outside.

Nobody’s here yet,
unless you count
the
two wench bodyguards
wearing trilby hats
and the blonde
door girl,
and the red rope
separating you
from them.

(Don’t sweat!
This is pretty
normal for 11pm.)

Door girl gets out
walkie talkie.
Feels more
Paul Blart Mall Cop
than exclusive club,
but just roll with it.
She asks:

“Do you have a reservation?”
Reply:
“No.”
If you’re feeling bold

“Do you know who I am?”

She nods.
Rope? Opened.
World?
Your fucking oyster mate.

scotch4 (1)

OPEN DOORS

On your right,
the cloak room.
2 pounds?
Good joke
my guy.

Open another
door straight ahead.
You’re now in a small,
dimly lit room,
with palm tree wallpaper
and a gold ceiling
and a bar with
a “look @ me!!”
display of booze,
well lit on a
shelf.

It’s empty,
and you start to
wonder if Virgil
and Kendall were
ever really here.

BAR

Your face sinks.
Barman pouring
your Scotch and Soda
is a snake.
Too much soda,
not enough
Scotch, (especially
for
15 pounds!)
:O

A sea of
BooHoo.com
dresses arrive,
ones so tight you
feel perverted for
even
looking in their direction.

They
can’t be older
than 18, already
messy drunk,
holding hands,
letting out squeals
when
Bad and Boujee
comes on.
You can’t help
but mutter a
“rain drop,
drop top..”
-nobody’s perfect! 😉

scotch1 (1)

HEAD OUTSIDE

Shoved into
the black
shoebox of
a smoking area.
It’s packed and
Masons Yard is now

full of youts.

Gone are the old
Rock n Roll “crowd”
that used to frequent
this place
(Jimi Hendrix, Beach Boys, Kate Moss)
and in are the type of begs
Time Out magazine would
dub “cool kids”-
wearing cross body
bags and
Liam Hodges
and
those fucking
“Kurt Cobain sunglasses.”

Conversations
can be heard:

Myyyy g.”
Skepta’s actually a really cool guy”.
“Everyone in London is so fucking fake mannnn!”

Someone approaches you
for a filter.
You find them fit,
in a city boy kind
of way and
also because
it’s pretty slim pickings
out in this shoebox.
Give them a filter
and they dive straight
in:

“I work in finance but
I want to be a photographer.”

You didn’t realise
this was a job
interview.

“SHUSH!”
Bodyguard shouts.

“I’ll shush when I want to, mate.”
City boy says,
his
Signet ring glimmering
in the dark.

You finally understand
what
“Greaze Mode”
really means.
You say you need the…

scotch6 (1)

TOILET

“Watch it!”
Some yat shouts
at you, as the door
swings open.
She looks like a BTEC
Jorja Smith.

It’s narrow
and stuffy with
more palm tree
wallpaper
and when
a cubicle finally
becomes free you
open
the saloon style
doors.

You can see girls
touching up their
lipgloss through
the slats.

As your ass hits
the seat,
you realise
you’re more drunk
than you thought.

scotch2 (1)

TIME 2 DANCE

You pray to God
you don’t break your
ankle down the
staircase.

Enter a dark room
with average size
dance floor
and reddy pink lights
and
a disco
ball.

Surrounding are
little cave like
pockets with suede
booths and small
circular tables.

You can look,
but don’t you
dare touch!!

These are reserved
4 the “grey goose
dons” aka
19 year olds desperate
to relive
their
Batmitzvahs.

To your left!
Over there!
There’s one!
iPhone flash on,
bottle held up,
dub pistol in the air.
The gallys on
Snapchat must be
creaming
their undies!!!
#Mazeltovh.

scotch5 (1)

In the corner,
stands
a little, fairly
pathetic
DJ booth,
where “it boy”
Josh Barnes is
spinning decks.
(By this I mean
clicking play
on
Travis Scott’s
“Yosemite”.)
Before you can say
“it’s lit!”
the dance floor is
packed.

Told you things
would pop off,
you just need to be
patient.

 

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