Department: Bars & Clubs

My dear friends of Dorothy,

I duly report back from that fine London institution, Pride. Reflecting on an immensely colourful and well-organised march, your author was baffled –  just when will the advertising gurus at Fullers brewery wise up to marketing their ‘London Pride’ ale alongside sponsors Coca Cola, the Trade Union Council and the mayor ? It’s a winning idea if ever I had one, and I’ll be sure to claim my (liquid) royalties in the near future.

Fighting the good fight is thirsty work. After 200 yards of ceaseless marching, I decided to top up my rapidly evaporating fuel reserves at a nearby pub. Now, the occupational hazards of the bar critic are many, and it is sometimes difficult to turn down a drink or two from a well-wishing bar manager. I will therefore be forgiven for having come ‘under the weather’ (as the Irish have it) rather too early in the afternoon. It is my only explanation (and excuse) for having wandered into Sketch, a bar of such complex beauty that its landlord found it necessary to provide written instructions.

On entering, I was informed that the place would revert to a ‘members only’ arrangement after 9pm as this would “…ensure that we are able to develop and maintain our unique ambience as a place for like-minded, creative individuals.”

Deciding against offering Groucho Marx’s wisdom on clubs and memberships, I made my way towards the bar. This proved far from easy as it turned out there were six of them, bearing names such as ‘the lecture room’, ‘the parlour’ and ‘the glade’. I settled for the latter to peruse the above-mentioned instructions.

As it happened, these were only intelligible to people of my own level of intoxication. Using a lot of poetic prose, they contained gems such as

“…when the midnight hour approaches, tables and chairs are brushed away to allow movement and dance that comes when music infuses the room…”

and

“…you will find a dining hall of such magnificence, it will so take your breath away that your face will be a certain hue…”

This deluge of poetry immediately had the promised effect. My breath was taken away and my face rapidly changed its hue. It was time to vigorously brush away the tables and chairs, and quickly make for the salle de bain lest I should deprive the dining hall of its magnificence.

The toilets, then, were a revelation. I mean that quite literally as, once locked inside the egg-shaped contraption, a mixture of whale song and Battlestar Galactica sound effects transported me onto a new level of awareness – that of wasting my precious time in a poncy bar.

In my despair, I turned to the one object amongst the space cadet paraphenalia that looked familiar. It bore the comforting words Armitage Shanks. With much regret, I put it to good use and threw up the afternoon’s carefully assembled collection of free drinks.

On my return, it was time to start afresh as I’d decided to give the place another chance. Trying to take in the truly bombastic interior, I dimly recalled its creator, entrepreneur extraordinaire Mourad Mazouz.

Remembering the other examples of his handiwork (‘Momo’ and the aptly named ‘Derrière’ in Paris) I pondered the chances of his dreaming up yet another shining example of understated elegance. Indeed, if Borel’s chimpanzees were given enough time at their typewriters (and if they had been refused entry to design college and won the Euro lottery) they would probably come up with an interior not a million miles away from Sketch.

Turning to more practical matters, I decided to consult the cryptically titled UNEM RAB. It took one of my more sober companions to point out that this was ‘bar menu’ written backwards, a device of such wittiness the designers must have spent many difficult hours over it. As my friend pointed out, ‘you can only read it when you look at yourself in the mirror’. Incidentally, this seemed to be the favourite pastime of much of Sketch’s clientèle.

True, the house of Romanoff has seen better days, a fact which, on this occasion, was reflected in my attire. I therefore bear the staff no grudge for not wanting to serve me, and made my own way to the bar.

Torn between the bewildering array of drinks and the knowledge that (according to the poetic instructions) one needed ‘plenty of coins in one’s pocket’ I found myself in the same situation as Buridan’s undecided donkey, doomed to starve between two perfectly good pails of hay.

Luckily, another line from the users’ manual had stuck to the fly paper of my inebriated mind, namely, that this was ‘a Brasserie of Light.’ Of course – a pint of Light was the one drink that would offer some consolation to both liver and wallet. Alas, the staff were unwilling to serve Light, in pints or otherwise. Mild, Brown Ale and Milk Stout were equally unheard of, so the only (if unsatisfactory) solution was to make do with a tiny £5 bottle of Japanese lager. Maybe the PR department should change the description to ‘a brasserie of Dry.’

Soon it was time to decide whether the conflicting interests of credit status, thirst and rapidly waning attention span would warrant another drink.  Unable to reason myself out of this tricky corner of my mind, I had to consult the instructions once more. Tellingly, I came across a sentence that adequately summed up my experience:

“All I wish is that you arrive with an open mind and imagine, if you will, a painting that never dries.”

In my humble opinion, mes amis, this is the one area where our bold entrepreneur managed to exercise some restraint. Sketch is perhaps the capital’s only bar that is even more satisfying than watching paint that never dries.

I remain faithfully yours

Max Obolensky

Mes amis,

“Men wanted for hazardous journey. Small wages, bitter cold, long months of complete darkness, constant danger, safe return doubtful. Honour and recognition assured in case of success.”

Thus ran Sir Ernest Shackleton’s classified ad to man his famous 1914 South Pole expedition. The voyage proved to be hazardous indeed – his 300-ton schooner ‘Endurance’ was crushed like a beetle between two gigantic ice floes.

One would have thought that in the age of global satellite navigation such expeditions have long become obsolete. Lost Aztec cities, holy grails, Spanish galleons sunk by the weight of their precious load? These days they only exist in boys’ weeklies, you will object.

But you’d be wide off the mark, my friends. Because one treasure has so far eluded explorers from all corners of the globe – the affordable alcoholic drink after midnight.

Seasoned followers of these pages will hardly be surprised that a Romanoff had to embark on such an adventure sooner or later, its parameters (long darkness, bitter cold and doubtful personal safety) remaining unchanged since Shackleton’s day.

After thorough preparation at various West End base camps, I ventured into the long polar night of British licensing restrictions. On my frostbitten trail I encountered many magnificent specimens of that fabled urban giant – braving the cold, slow and ambling, yet ferocious – the British doorman. Their gruff replies all amounted to the same: refreshment was available, but would cost me a mortgage payment and, judging from the sound pressure of the ambience, the remainder of my hearing.

In a state of physical and spiritual exhaustion I finally staggered into the ice desert of Oxford Street. Suddenly I found myself aghast. In the depths of a small alleyway lay the remains of a long-forgotten civilization. Hot tears of joy unstuck my frozen eyelids as I shared Schliemann’s rapture at the discovery of the sunken city. From a first floor window, light flickered inside a long-closed speakeasy, now miraculously re-opened. It was the legendary place that once shared the name of Priam’s mighty fortress: The Troy Club.

In years past, it had pioneered a licence-law flouting scheme of bogus membership which would reward the exhausted adventurer with cheap refreshment until daybreak. Then as now, the mildly soused Brazilian bouncer was quickly hoodwinked by the Trojan Horse of my long-expired membership card. A final climb up the rickety stairs, the conquest of a vacant bar stool and an order from the affordable drinks menu completed my triumph over the elements.

To the tunes of a guitar-clutching David Bowie aficionado the hours melted away, whilst the Becks (at £2.50) flowed like water off an ice giant at the peak of the climate catastrophe. When it was finally time to turn homewards, I gratefully waved to my Brazilian friend who laughingly pointed to the faded sign by the entrance: “Only members are allowed to consume alcoholic beverages in this snack bar.”

What, my friends, could be more agreeable than being such a member, and of the oldest club of all – humanity?

Your

Max Obolensky