Friday to-do list (of people)

I have a new idea for rating bars / restaurants / clubs. The whole "how many stars out of five" or "how many points out of ten" thing doesn't work for me. It's too subjective; I change my mind easily, I sit on the fence, I oscillate between 4.5 and 5.5 out of 10. The alternative I propose is clear cut: How many drinks are necessary for me to start having a good time in said place? Needless to say, the scale goes from zero to infinity measured in DV (double vodkas). The first establishment I hereby subject to my new rating algorithm is Abacus, a bar on Cornhill, not far from the Bank of England. The score: 3.5 DV, which I consider fairly high. (In fact, I drank plenty more that night, ending up oblivious to The World and everyone in it, but half way through the fourth was when I started to vaguely enjoy myself. )

The trouble with Abacus started early on. We were not on the guest list, despite previous reassurance from dear friend V., who was already inside and conveniently not picking up his phone. "I will put you girls on about ten guest lists for tomorrow night," he said the day before. Aha. Not this one. Did I mention it was freezing cold outside as well? We queued in the Not On Guest List queue for 20 minutes. Why do these places have queues anyway? Is it just to make them look more desirable? Give me a break.

Inside, it was like a ZOO in the middle of mating season. Crowded, desperate, and full of people out to get laid, or those who can't get laid and come here to at least succumb to alcohol-induced unconsciousness. The crowd didn't feel right at all. Abacus, you are not my scene. You. Are. Not.

Dear friend V. noticed and tried to whip up some excitement in me, "Come on, Lucie, cheer up! There are sooooo many good-looking guys here." I looked around. Undeniably, he was right. Many hot guys who doubtless have a gym membership and good genes. But ...

I suspect their morning routine goes like this:

1. iron shirt

2. apply hair gel

3. inject testosterone

4. remove soul

So that didn't work. Dear friend V. refused to give up and offered me a back massage. "You are so tense!" Oooooh. Aaaah. Massages! Even when they're quickies, they're good.

"We are not staying here too long, are we?" I asked him while he rubbed my shoulders.

"No, there are about 7 or 8 options for clubs we can go to afterwards. Where do you wanna go? Any preferences?"

"No hookers," I said with the stern look of a moralist. (I have not forgotten about Mayfair Bar!)

"To be honest, Lucie, I think about 80 percent of the girls here could be described as hookers," he conceded.

"Is it normally this crowded?"

"Yeah, all the bankers and all the PAs from the City come out here on a Friday."

Ehm, excuse me! Did I just hear what I think I heard? Why do guys get stereotyped as "bankers" and girls get to be "PAs"? Penis = Career Success? Hellooooo, anybody home??? This is twenty first century knocking on the door. Let me in!!! Why aren't we over that crap yet? This painful truth, this realization that we are not equal, and that ignorance is still alive and well, took another double vodka to swallow.

Which takes me onto ... the crowd. Again. Abacus is full of guys standing around, pointing at girls and whispering something to their mates. Something like "I'm gonna fuck that girl tonight." Or shag, or screw, or do, ... I doubt the boys refer to a Thesaurus for possible ways of paraphrasing. The girls were on par; all looked like social climbers. Pretentious, tons of orangey make-up, fake tan, fake eye lashes, fake blond hair (straightened). I hate all that shit. Polyester will never cashmere, and those cheap earrings from Primark will never be gold. So why even pretend.

Now onto good points ... As a Libran by star sign, I do like to give a balanced account of everything and stay objective and weigh up the pros and cons before arriving at my conclusion. The decor is nice. The DJ was good. He seemed like a nice guy, and the music was alright as far as I remember, although after so much alcohol ... you never know if you can really trust your judgment. But what cheered me up most was this one guy wearing a t-shirt that said "I am not on Facebook." Yeheeei, somebody with an opinion. Somebody with a soul! What a shame he is not on Facebook, though. I would have added him.