Sorry I haven't written anything for ages! I will make up for it with this monumental post.

Let me tell you a story. It goes a little something like this:

I was tired, too tired perhaps. It was only six thirty and I had been yawning since eleven that morning. My friend Annie was celebrating her birthday that evening and I was ill prepared for it. It only took three Red Thunders and I was feeling a little more up for it. I’d imagine, however, that whatever part my body caffeine forces me to ignore was screaming pretty loud now.

Annie managed to get a Q-jump for the massively popular new Vodka Revolutions near London Road. Five of us hopped in a taxi (girls can’t walk very far apparently – their feet hurt and it’s cold...pfff). £2.50 down. When we arrived we joined the q-jump queue – something that still confuses me anywhere other than Jesters. It took about 15 minutes to get in but despite the cold I didn’t really mind. £5 down. The bar looks pretty awesome – changed a little since lizard lounge and apartment26. The top floor looks ace – I joined the bar queue.

Being British, queuing comes quite naturally. We love it, admittedly not as much as Americans but still a fair amount.

I am tall. About 6’ 4” so in general it is a pleasant experience – smaller people unfortunately suffer. I often elbow them in the face on the dance floor or force then to sniff at my armpits by the bar. Thankfully my armpits often smell delightful.

Although I can see over everyone, I am still unable to choose a good spot to try to get a drink. In fact, that evening I was especially on form. I joined a section behind a girl who immediately ordered eight cocktails. Each included: a rim drizzle (sounds dodgy) of chocolate sauce, double vodka and frothy milk and cream. Each appeared to take 2 minutes to make and during this time, approximately 30 people joined the queue around me, all attempting to get served at that end of the bar.

I had become slightly impatient at this point but finally she paid and left, spilling only some of the chocolate milk down me. Something even stranger happened now. Some staff redistribution occurred, moving a member of staff along to my end of the bar to help relieve the back-log. She failed. Unfortunately for me, the area that I had picked was now entirely devoid of bar staff.

I am a stubborn optimist. This is usually of great benefit to me. I have hope in bad situations; I can see the light at the end of the tunnel; and I think that squished up face people make when they eat food that I have cooked is a sort of congratulations. It also means that I stay in the bit of bar where there isn’t anyone serving, hoping that soon someone will realise and sort it out. This rarely happens.

I had been queuing for 35 minutes now and I was reasonably irate – the jovial smile I usually carry had faded somehow. My girlfriend jabbed me in the ribs –
“You hear that...Err...fire alarm?”
“Isn’t that part of the song?”
“mmm... no...it’s been going off for about two minutes now.”
Indeed, she was right. It was only when the DJ switched tracks that either the bar staff or bouncers even noticed. When they did, they took a further five or ten minutes to get people out of the building. People were walking down the fire exits, only to find the doors either locked or blocked. However you look at it, that is pretty BAD.

I’m sure you can imagine, if you haven’t been distracted by friends, family, iTunes or Facebook (notice that distractions often begin with an F), that by now, I was pretty much fuming. I was outside, cold, sober and tired. They kept us outside for a further 20 minutes – enough time for at least half of those previously inside the club to leave for Junk – “Shakedown” or Rhino – “Let’s Kill Disco” (Thanks to some opportunist flyering!).

There was some excellent banter from Tuesday night. Pick of the bunch is how, mysteriously, a Vodka Revolutions ice sculpture travelled all the way across town and into Jesters...

If you were one of the few who bothered to finish the night, can you tell me if it was any good? Did you get those free shots that they promised? Does the Pope shit in the woods? - I thought not...