Where to begin?

First of all I was pretty much tricked into visiting this bar. It's in Oxford Circus near the Apple store, which I only bring up so that if you're following a group of friends to ‘some bar’ they know and you find yourself in this area, do a fast heel turn and get the Christ out of the dodge.

Before we could get in to this place we were frisked for weapons, which has happened to me 3 times before in London. Once at the Camden Lloyds bar on the waterfront, and twice on high profile terror magnet The London Eye. Secondly they took my ID, and scanned it with a special machine which took all the pertinent info from it [my name, my face] so that, as they told us when we asked, if someone started a fight, glassed a barmaid or choked a bitch, their information would be on file and as such can be matched up with CCTV footage of fighting/staff glassing/bitch choking.

Charming.

Inside it becomes clear that the high value security measures are vastly necessary. The place is full of the worst people in the country. Also I can't help but wonder why, when scanning the ID's of every patron, the guy doesn't take a pass at the section with D.O.B on it. There's no way that most, if any, of these girls are 18 years old. You get the odd one, here and there, who looks about 20 odd, but for the most part it's 17 year old girls all the way. Drinking half a Bacardi Ice and spending the rest of the night going "WoooH" and saying "I'm so DRUNK!"… then swaying.

Being horrified to the very core of my curmudgeonly grump-tastic self, I reached for the closest thing of comfort. The bar.
Took a beard's age to get served because there was just no cohesion behind there. You got about 8 bar staff for not that long of a bar, but they're running around having such a fucking grand old time that they miss enormous chunks of the people waiting because they skipped over to one end to chat with Lacquetia and then right back to the other bloody side to steal and wear Sean-o's mad trilby.

Then when I did get a pint [of Becks Vier, because it was that or Stella, which is essentially Carling with Steroids in it] it wound up costing me £3.70.

In one corner of this Lord of the Flies themed pre-teen hellhole is a stage, for dancing. Or more accurately, a stage for various underdressed barely legal slags to show you tomorrows washing, today!

I wasn't paying it too much attention at first. It's the usual gaggle of cardboard box beige coloured one woman hen nights who look like they put their make up on in a moving car with a shotgun, until I start to notice a queue racking up at the bar. Not unusual, for reasons already specified, but then the barstaff themselves are noticeable in their absence. Rather than chumming it up like the cast of Friends in an interview, they've relocated their 10 strong fun-ployee workforce up onto the stage, where they proceed to perform the most in time and well choreographed version of the Thriller dance I've seen outside of a Thai Prison.
 
It's baffling to see such a cohesive unit busting out complex dance moves [including The Rock On and that one they do with the sort of werewolf arms back and forth] then returning to work only to fail at serving drinks. Honestly the girl who pulled my pint had to use three separate taps and stop no less than four times to rake the 5 inches of foam off the top with some straws.

Eventually some lass gets up on and she's either had pole dancing lessons or is a professional pole dancer on a night out, because she starts showing off her skills... and her minge.

Yes despite being obviously very talented on the old steel, it was clear to us all that she hadn't planned on this impromptu show of thigh strength. She went upside down, spun around and even did the vertical splits. Actually she was facing away from me on that last one, so all I saw was her arse again. The poor bastards on the other side of her could probably see her uterus and very possibly that missing coke bottle cap.

After she was done she walks past us to the bar, prompting a nearby punter to leer after her so hard I thought his eyes were gonna pop like spring loaded toy missiles. He said she was "a bit chubby", but when he "saw her fanny" he concluded he "definitely would". I told him that the whole experience was very different for me, because she was my sister.

His mouth fell through to New Zealand and I think even his hair gel got the droop, and I left soon after being unable to stomach anymore of the Creche of the Damned. It was the first few weeks after all the grown-ups die and children inherit the Earth, before electricity stops and the infrastructure crumbles.

BEER SELECTION: Handful of beer options, otherwise it’s wine or cocktails.

COST OF A ROUND: £3.70 beer. £6.60 cocktail. £5 Glass of Wine. Value for Money.

STAFF: Skilled, well trained, coherent, and rehearsed (when dancing). When serving drinks, it’s the opposite.

FOOD: Not experienced the all day tapas menu, but it looks very simple and even more expensive.

SKIRT RATIO: Girls, (not ladies) far too willing to spend the night in an unfamiliar bed. Whether to call won’t be your biggest worry, as you’ll either be arrested or murdered by an angry dad in his 30’s.

OVERALL: Just don't ever go there.          (Complete absence of stars)

Strawberry Moons - Mayfair - Brought to you by Gazz Wood -