Done out in deep red with the look of a Vietnamese opium den, the club has lashings of atmosphere, and a rather ambiguous identity. We ordered food, Indian, which was patchy and in some places actually raw – the pakora was inedible. Still, the ambience compensated and we enjoyed a couple of long cocktails before heading out for Matterhorn, apparently a legend in Wullington. No idea why – it was nothing to write home about. We didn’t hang about long, instead moseying over to Motel, a place so exclusive they once turned away Liv Tyler. Obviously those days of exclusivity, and, let’s be frank, mind-boggling stupidity have gone, because they let us in and god knows we have been chucked out of enough places before. Maybe Liv still had her pixie ears on at the time and they mistook her for a Tasmanian. Motel is a great bar; lush retro décor with a big fat Buddha greeting you, then carved, cut-out screens separating the main area, with plush, kitsch soft furnishing throughout. It doesn’t lend itself to dancing, and the only person to engage us in conversation was a bloke who showed us some magic tricks and then offered to take us skiing in his BMW. We were nodding into our G&Ts by this stage so back to the Sharella – and, ooh, those electric blankets!
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