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.
Yeah, you could be.
With its black awning and no sign post-
Scotch doesn’t look like much from
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
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.
“Do you have a reservation?”
If you’re feeling bold–
“Do you know who I am?”
Your fucking oyster mate.
On your right, the cloak room.
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.
Your face sinks.
Barman pouring your Scotch and Soda
is a snake.
Too much soda, not enough
Scotch, (especially for 15 pounds!)
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
Bad and Boujee comes on.
You can’t help but mutter a
-nobody’s perfect! 😉
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
(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:
“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
it’s pretty slim pickings
out in this shoebox.
Give them a filter
and they dive straight
“I work in finance but
I want to be a photographer.”
You didn’t realise this was a job
“I’ll shush when I want to, mate.”
City boy says,
Signet ring glimmering
in the dark.
You say you need the…
“Watch it!” some yat shouts
at you, as the door
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
You can see girls touching up their
As your ass hits the seat,
you realise you’re more drunk
than you thought.
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
Surrounding are little cave like
pockets with suede booths and small
You can look, but don’t you
These are reserved 4 the “grey goose dons” aka
19 year olds desperate
to relive their Batmitzvahs.
To your left!
iPhone flash on, bottle held up,
dub pistol in the air.
The gallys on Snapchat must be creaming
In the corner, stands
a little, fairly pathetic
DJ booth, where “it boy”
Josh Barnes is spinning decks.
(By this I mean
Before you can say
the dance floor is
Told you things
would pop off,
you just need to be
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