I’m not really sure what that was…

I’m not really sure what that was…

Most nights that you go out in the city inevitably turn out to be dull. Once the alcohol induced fog clears, and you begin to tot up the cost of all those drinks that seemed like such a great idea at 2am in the morning, you realize that you were probably better off staying at home watching Doctor Who. Most nights. But then, and these are the nights that keep us coming out every time, filled with enthusiasm and hope, some nights are like solid gold rainbows.

Saturday night was just such a night. Good location, good company, a successful day – and then something that made the whole evening just a little bit special. I am, of course, talking about Spooning Goats. I know, I know. Bear with me. We’d had dinner and about five pints at PJ’s underneath The Grace, which is just a sensational Irish Pub. And then, a friend of mine, who will remain nameless for the sake of his own confidentiality, suggested we go have a cocktail at this little bar he knew about.

You know those bars in the back alleys in every second James Bond movie? Maybe in a souk ┬áin Morocco? Well, imagine a place something like that, except you’ve got to get to it via a rickety aluminium staircase, as it sits squarely beneath a cheap tourist shop and an acrylic nail place. Or something. And then, you pass through the threshold and it’s like you’ve stepped into someone’s lounge room. And the 1970s. Big comfy chairs. Made out of felt. Curtains and wall hangings. Made out of felt. Cocktails. Made out of felt – well, perhaps not, but you get the idea. Strange bits of art – my favourite was the imperial stormtrooper with the bullet hole in his helmet. And console games – like really old console games. Donkey Kong. 1942. Pitstop. It was awesome.