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Thursday, 2 December 2010

Jalouse, Mayfair : Ultimat Launch

So insatiable are clubbers’ for the stuff, Vodka Idol ought to be Simon Cowell’s next project. In its groovy cobalt blue decanter, Ultimat - a smooth Polish vodka distilled from potato, rye and wheat -  has the X-Factor in spades. To my taste, "it nails it" as the TV talentless show's resident Irish whelk , the bell-end on the end of the judges' table, might say. To celebrate a new UK distribution deal, the premium brand is throwing a bash in the 'VIP' section at Jalouse, a spendy nightclub popular with those who one day hope to infest magazines you might flick through without buying at Tesco's tills. Here, blonde Barbies cosy up to their by-the-£180-bottle enablers while one ropey old soak who really should know better is falling for the chicken fillet charms of korma-tone tan promotions girls whose sequined minis are so short, they remind me of another London club....Tramp. Their brief? To pour as much of the stuff down willing necks as is humanly possible. The verdict? Ultimat tastes even better after the first litre and delivers a punch worthy of fellow partygoer,  David Haye...a champion boxer, I'm told. A welcome side effect of such heroic consumption is that, through voddie goggles,  Jalouse's gyrating girls, giggly on alcohol - and the fumes from the cloud of Angel by Mugler that envelops them - grow almost attractive. Inhibitions nuked, I flail around on the dance-floor. Understandably startled by my impression of lascivious thigh rubber Vic Reeves on Shooting Stars, a sea of Lipsy dresses parts and their owners' escorts - who knew Jack Tweed was a major style icon? -  eyeball me as if to say 'wanna take this outside, perv?' Bored by my study of the mating rituals of Essex birds up-West - and the sting of acrylic extensions flicked in my face - I'm suddenly over it. Pas du tout jaloux of the Jalouse lifestyle, all swilly and swaying, I stumble out into the square where the November night chill hits me. Splat! My coupon connects with concrete. The result of my unplanned encounter with Hanover Square's pavement - a look a friend will later dub Bloody Mary -  sends salvation in the shape of taxi drivers speeding off in search of less potentially problematic fares. In truth, even the Council refuse lorry would think twice about picking me up. But there's a silver lining to my trashy tale. So pure is this luxury hooch, I'm spared the humiliation of puking into the porcelain, even after ingesting enough of the stuff to tranquilise a rampaging rhino. On this basis alone, I commend velvety smooth Ultimat, a class act that's wasted on one whose behaviour, tonight, is ultimately as classy as a dose of chlamydia .
Jalouse, 17 Hanover Square