Night out with the Posh People!

Interesting times continue in London as I learned the art of VIP clubbing. A few Saturdays ago (sorry for the delinquency!) I began my evening with a fun dinner at a local pub with extended US family the notion of ‘going out big’ enters the conversation. Hmm, as AoY is always up for a big night with the right prodding I discovered the location: Pasha. When: 11:15 Where: Table reserved by a friend’s Black Amex Why: Show good friend of McC’s the fun times of London.

A quick rush home to change into appropriate gear (thank god the Armani fits again and I ditched the jeans) I hopped in a cab and prepared to fork over my life savings to get to Victoria. My cabbie, a nice East Ender who commiserated with flatmate’s laptop theft, told me that Pasha was a very well-know and ‘respectable’ club, unlike the ‘shit new places that fold in a month’. As we pulled up to a queue that literally was FIVE across by TOW BLOCKS long, I had doubts about my ever seeing the inside. Thankfully McC sent me to the ‘other’ side, reserved for those with, well, a reservation. With McC leading his harem of women (seriously, it was one man to about 7 women from around the world) to the door, I found myself at a cultural crossroads. First I was wanded by security, then patted down like I was in the Frankfurt airport by a woman, then my bag was subjected to the same. Now, in DC, if a club has this kind of security, YOU DON’T GO IN!!!! These are the clubs located in NE or SE and let’s just say that I would stick out like a French woman in a Venus shaver commercial. But tight security is apparently de rigger among the hip and trendy night spots of London.

Assured that I hadn’t brought an Uzi to the table we trooped upstairs to the tents of Morocco. Now, usually ‘getting a table’ means that one shells out 500 quid in drinks and then has the right to put their jackets down at a table in the corner. You literally pay through your ass to sit on it. Tables usually run around the edges of the dance floor and inevitably one club rat attempts to just ‘perch’ for a bit. No way this was happening upstairs at Pasha. We had a bottle service (something I had only heard of until now), fresh fruit, champagne and strawberries, and a tent with cushions in colors to make a sultan sigh. Trying not to sound provincial or worse, American, I just cracked a bottle, nibbled on melon and kiwi and watched the hoi polloi below me writhe to house music. It was either the continuous flow of bubbly or Grey Goose but by the end of the night I had sufficiently loosened up to hang over the rail and gyrate to surprisingly good club music. The best were these girls dressed up like Drew Barrymore from the Batman movie or Playboy bunny rejects. They wore all white lingerie and walked around the floor holding up signs. I suppose that it is a classier alternative to the tequila shooter girls of my usual haunts and hang outs. Two people braved the ground floor for some sweaty gyrations but I played the elitist whose feet were paining them. Really I just enjoyed lounging on velvet and talking in a reasonable tone of voice to other tenters. The only downside? No cute eligible men ANYWHERE on the VIP level (yes, it turns out we were VIP not just tableside). There were some 40-year-old gay men with their 20-year-old Eastern European hookers (which I totally didn’t understand-these men were gay!) and one or two sketchy older men but that’s it! I guess the rich and fabulous were at Nobu or Chinawhite that evening.
I was having so much fun hanging out (and drinking) that I barely noticed the time until suddenly it was 4:45 in the morning!!! I mentally kissed my morning run plans goodbye and made for a taxi. Yup, another solo ride (it was in a legit black cab, no worries!) and I suddenly became more aware of my state of inebriation out of the smoke and music. Thankfully the ride was uneventful and I crawled into bed just in time for the sun to rise!

The morning after was not fun. Morning, hell. I didn’t roll over until 2:15pm and that was only because my headache woke me up. A bottle of water and some Tylenol MIGHT have gone a long way towards easing my pain except I forgot the cardinal rule of overindulging-if you wake up and fell bad, get food into system before ingesting more liquids! Whoops-that ended badly, twice. So after repeating the cycle again (I can be a bit dim) I hit upon the idea of delivery. Of course-cosmopolitan London SURELY has delivery on a Sunday afternoon! My first thought was Cook-Out or Cosmic Cantina but I settled for locating Pizza Hut and saying Damn the Calories! I rung my pizza boy only to discover a horrible truth about Pizza Huts in the UK-THEY DON’T DELIVER. AT ALL. The nice young man mentioned that it was only a 15 minute walk to Kensington Church street and I could pick up my order. Thanks buddy, it might as well be 15 miles-I can’t even walk across the apartment! After my initial horror: “Seriously, you don’t deliver? Is this Pizza Hut? Yes? You don’t deliver? At all? But I’m hung over!!!!” My outburst cost me greatly in the headache department but I gamely dialed Domino’s (ewwwwwwwwwwwww, but desperate times…). A very nice boy agreed to delivery in under 20 minutes. One liter of Real Coke (no Coke Zero, Coca-Cola Lite, Diet Pepsi, Pepsi Max) and a slice of cheese pizza later my body forgave me and I lived. It was only 8 PM at this point. Time for bed.

All in all Pasha was fantastic but I am hopelessly spoiled now and will never stand in a queue 300 people long just to stand in a hot smoky club and rub against Albanians and the unbathed. I suppose this means that I won’t be clubbing again in London! But it was worth it, if only for the tales and photos :)