A Case of Mistaken Identity.

A few weeks ago I was walking through Soho when it started raining. I ducked into a doorway to wait for it to ease off and was joined, a couple of moments later, by a very glamorous black girl. She had obviously been running in the rain, and swore loudly as she pulled out a mirror to check her make-up, smoothing down her perfectly straightened hair with the other hand. She snapped her compact shut, looked around at the dark alcove, and suddenly noticing me, said, "Oh hello, do you know if this is the back entrance to Stringfellows?"

Now, I must explain what Stringfellows is at this point, otherwise the story won't make sense. Stringfellows is an infamous London institution, claiming to be... The Most Famous Gentleman's Club in the World. Peter Stringfellow opened its doors in 1980, perfectly timing the introduction of his 'stylish' topless dancing club with the glitz, glamour, big hair and hedonistic excesses of 80's London. It never pretended to be as tasteful as somewhere like the Playboy Club, but nevertheless, celebrities, international film stars, rock stars, models, paparazzi, and journalists flocked there for years. Nowadays, it attracts a different kind of celebrity… more overpaid footballer than award winning actor, but it still inspires a sort of hushed awe as people pass by and openly stare at the wealthy clientele as they are hurriedly ushered in under the bright neon logo. In 2006, Peter Stringfellow opened a second venue in Soho, and much to the horror of his seedier competitors, became the first club owner to gain a fully nude licence. And this, ladies and gentleman, was where I was apparently standing, one rainy night in Soho.


The girl was waiting for an answer. I looked at the door, expecting to see some sort of small sign or door buzzer to indicate it was indeed Strinfellows' back entrance, but seeing neither, I shrugged and said, "Um… I don't think so, maybe it's further down". She rolled her eyes, swore again and dug around in her vast handbag, pulling out a phone. "Shit, I'm so fucking late", she said, not really directing it at me, "I'm going to be in so much trouble". She heaved her bag on to her shoulder, somehow managed to tap a number into the phone with a diamante encrusted nail, and left. I heard her mumble an apology, then shout expletives and then ask directions as her tottering footsteps faded into the night. I sighed, pulled my coat tighter around me and leaned back against the door.


Suddenly, I was propelled sideways and flattened against the wall as the door flew open. "Owww," I said loudly, as I was squooshed into the tiny gap. A massive hand then curled around the edge of the door, followed by a huge bald head. "Ooh, sorry luv", he said, pulling me out. An enormous burly white man stood before me wearing a black suit and overcoat. He reached up and touched an ominous earpiece, its curly wire tucked into his collar. "Come on then... inside", he said impatiently, as his hand motioned towards the entrance. "You're late!", he added gruffly. Um. I was completely dumbstruck (for once) and as he noticed my horrified expression, he began very slowly, to lower his eyes, looking me up and down with an increasingly puzzled look on his bulbous face. You could actually see the confusion in his brain as it whirled around…. does not compute, does not compute. The fact that he had momentarily mistaken me for a dancer was utterly hilarious. Even more hilarious was the look on the black girls face as she came back and saw what was happening. "Um, hello?", she said rudely, staring at the bouncer with an appalled look of utter condescension. Her withering glare would have destroyed a weaker man, but he just beamed at her as happy relief flooded his face, and she was gently swept inside and the door closed firmly behind her.


People complain that Soho is becoming too gentrified with its overpriced wine bars and award winning restaurants, but as long as tits and arse still sell, there will never be a dull moment.



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