Cahoots, Soho

Duncan Stirling and Charlie Gilkes do love a theme bar. The pair owns Made In Chelsea magnets such as Bunga Bunga (bottom-pincher-plagued cheesy Neapolitan 1950s pizza parlour), Bart's (Val de Sloane Square après-ski chalet shindig) and Mr. Fogg's (Victorian voyager's Mayfair town 'hice' or tweedy 30s-throwback MP Jacob Rees-Mogg's gaff, I can never quite decide). Their latest wheeze replaces what was the no-less heavily staged DISCO (Cahoots' self-explanatory 70s-style predecessor, sadly, nowhere near as dangerously debauched as Studio 54, as this tearaway teen remembers it). So convincing is the mise-en-scène that is the venue's entrance - flagged up by a sign that says "To The Trains", accessed via a wooden escalator that leads to a ticket office manned by the first of various period-piece extras straight out of Foyle's War - foreign tourists are convinced Kingly Court Station is actually part of the London Underground network. If it were a station, it would be on the Party Line; for here's a morale-boosting knees-up in a full-blown recreation of a Tube station (complete with old Bakerloo line carriage) circa Biggin Hill and Bluebirds Over The White Cliffs Of Dover. Van-loads of vintage props set the scene and, when I drop in, some game birds have gaily entered into the spirit by dressing in 40s mufti, presumably in the hope of attracting a GI who will cover them with Hershey's kisses, shower them with cologne, Helena Rubenstein rouge and Nylons and whisk them away from bombed-out London to a lovely new life as a Housewife of New Jersey. My gimlet eyes, of course, see this barmy bunker for the charade it is. Who Do You Think You Are Kidding Mr. Stirling? In wartime Blighty, you'd be lucky to find Camp coffee - as in sickly sweet ersatz alternative, not espresso served by some queer bugger debarred from service lest he become the barrack-room bike. Here, you're on for cracking classic and contemporary cocktails billed as 'starlets and sirens' and 'wide-boys and good-time girls, all served - neat touch! - with free rations of ham and pickle cut-up sarnies in army issue tins. What's more, the two brooding Continental chaps charged with martini-making would certainly not be employed behind Cahoots' bar, rather charged and slung behind a POW camp's bars; "Wops" - "Italians" to you - being shamefully allied to those spiffingly attired but thoroughly beastly Nazis back in 1941. Any internment in this camp caper is no hardship, what with decent drinks and jitterbugging to Glenn Miller's In The Mood with hunky Hank from Hoboken NJ to keep you amused. Welcome to The Blitz... if not quite as the late lamented Steve Strange imagined it! 
13 Kingly Court W1B 5PW www.facebook.com/cahootslondon

Mr. Fogg's, Mayfair

Flustered by my temporary DISCO malaise (see previous review), I am escorted to the relative calm of a new bar to help me come down. On paper, ‘Phileas Fogg’s Mayfair mansion’ is theme bar hell, but the latest jape from Charlie Gilkes and Co is not as arch as it sounds. In a witty cod-Victorian drawing room stuffed with exotica from the fictional traveller’s foreign adventures, staff, lookers all - Old Etonian Gilkes's ex-fags? - appear in duds from Flashman's days. Dapper chaps who might otherwise have become estate agents in Fulham, mix seriously pukka cocktails - Brooklyn, blinker, sazerac and whisky snapper (£10). Served on vintage cake stands, we eat toasted sandwiches of the type I'd theoretically rustle up - coming home late, squiffy and famished - on my Breville toaster, if only the bloody thing hadn't gone the same way as my George Forman Grill after gathering dust in a cupboard for years. Spookily, a footman appears with a drink before I can order one. "I thought Sir would appreciate a vieux carré?" Either he's psychic, or he's been reading my reviews: here's a New Orleans classic  Sir does very much appreciate. Should I poach Mr Flogg's flunky for my personal Passepartout? My drinking companion, editor of an in-flight mag aimed at Euro-yoof, is also down with his drink, a Bobby Burns, if not the company - decidedly straight and mainstream. "We're in Mayfair not Dalston, Dorothy!" Mr Fogg's, and its owners' other bars Bunga Bunga, Maggie's and Bart’s aren't aimed at me even if  I do (technically) live in Chelsea. Merchant banker-infested Earls Court is no longer the louche locale I was originally drawn to. Gilkes has the toff market all taped up, and (top) hats off to him for that. At least  Made In Chelsea dry cleans its clobber and washes under its oxters -  not something that can be said of the cruddy Clapton contingent.  Ollie and Millie's silly vanilli sort notwithstanding, this Mayfair blast is totes Fogg-horny.

15 Bruton Lane, W1J 6JD 7299 1200 http://mr-foggs.com 

Disco, Soho Part 2

Whenever I hear its unmistakable opening bars, Van McCoy's 70's classic The Hustle still thrills me to the core.  The Whispers; The Chi-Lites; George McRae; Teddy Pendergrass; The Hues Corporation: such was the diet of a 4-to-the-floor fan kid in his bedroom, dreaming of strutting far-off Manhattan's seemingly unattainable light-up dance floors. It was a fantasy that would presently come true, however. Clocking the bold slogan I'd had printed in white on a black t-shirt,  Steve Rubell, co-owner of the world's most notorious night club... EVER, spots this precocious wee Scot, not yet legally old enough to drink,  chancing his luck at the Big Apple’s most hard to crash door.  picking me out from among the clamouring hordes of hopefuls in their thousands at his venue’s besieged portals, he beckons me to come forward "FUCK STUDIO 54?" - for such was the message of my gamble in  reverse psychology - "You got some nerve, kid!’ Fearing the worst, the cocky kid is quaking inside, all yellow Jello in 501 jeans. After what seemed like at least a decade…..he smiles and pulls back the velvet rope that separates mere mortals from disco heaven. "Welcome to Studio 54. Enjoy!" says God, handing me a 54-embossed lifetime VIP membership for my chutzpah; this, to the utter incredulity of my hard-bitten Manhattan leather queen roomie who had warned such impudence would see us both permanently banished to Brooklyn or some other bridge and tunnel hell. Fast forward to 2013. If - as Charlie  Gilkes just has  - you are going to open a London club that aims to recreate NYC's glory days (i.e circa Shalamar), expect me to be your pickiest critic. Accomplished international Hustler; DJ; Fire Island tea dance fixture:  DISCO is in my DNA. Well, perhaps not quite all things. What was consumed in 54's inner sanctum, vintage Dom P aside, never really interested me.  Fly Robin Fly by Silver Convention, not a silver spoon at my nose, was all I needed to get high. But as I head towards the party Charlie (ironic name for a nightclub owner, no?) is throwing for DISCO Soho's launch, I am coming over all queer - and not in a YMCA way. You See The Trouble With Me (as big old Bazza White sang it) is the hash brown I ate at a party I attended earlier was exactly what it said on the tin and its key ingredient’s woozy warpy ways  are kicking in. And not in a good way. As fake hair-flicky drag queens camp it up and DISCO's waiters in gold shorts and muscle vests take to the floor for their well-choreographed routine to The Fatback Band's Bus Stop,  I'm becoming increasingly claustrophobic, panicked by flashbacks. Fraying around the edges, I am beginning to Freak, and not in a Chic way. How come? Because DISCO, entered via a mocked-up door to a Pan-Am 747, feels Mighty Real (RIP Sylvester). Not up there with 54 of course, but it could be a dive in downtown Hoboken circa Boogie Ooogie Oogie. What's really upsetting me though, is a mural in the style of Keith Haring - imagery that I will forever associate with New York in those dark days when the perma-party turned to carnage. Suddenly, they are all back in the room. Warren; Steve; Angel; Karl; Calvin; Lloyd: gym buff blokes in their prime turned overnight into sarcoma-riddled, zombie-eyed cadavers as the Big A felled 50% of my disco buds. Add to this, a worrying-looking go-go dancer that, in my current altered state, I take to be a short-arse London society queen with her head stuck inside a glitter ball. "Wow! Is that really Fran Cutler?" I say. "Not with that body" quips catty person unknown. Or have I hallucinated that too? Sweaty, clammy, breathless,  I flee Gilkes's undoubtedly fine and fun vision of 1979 before I can critique DISCO's disco drinks - tequila sunrise, Harvey Wallbanger, blue lagoon. Based on his other venue's cocktails (Bunga Bunga, Maggie's Bart's), I imagine they are all perfectly acceptable. “ Take deep breaths and repeat ten times "I Will Survive" I say to myself as Gilke's PR leads me up towards fresh air and spirits me off to the relative sanity of his other new gaff, Mr. Fogg's (see next review). Music was always my party drug of choice. The same can’t be said of so many Studio54  regulars that have long since joined Steve Rubell, partying on at the greatest disco the skies have ever seen, no doubt.  

DISCO, 13 Kingly Court W1 7299 1222 http://disco-london.com

Disco, Soho

Do I really need to go to... DISCO?

What: a new nightclub from Charlie Gilkes and Duncan Stirling - the brains behind Bunga Bunga and Maggie’s - disco promises ‘the glamour of Studio 54 and the atmosphere of Paradise Garage’ (I'll be the judge of that, mista!) with podium dancers and shirtless waiters in shiny tight shorts designed to show off their glitter-balls

Where: 13 Kingly Court, Soho. Twitter @DiscoSoho

When: from 28th June 

Pros: Ask the Hot Shot DJ for your fave Instant Replay, then get set to Jump To The Beat.  Do It Anyway You Wanna (Do It), and Dance Dance Dance (Yowsah! Yowsah! Yowsah!) at Funkytown’s latest Boogie Wonderland. Young Hearts Run Free, so after some (eye-to-eye) Contact, get ready to Get Down and Push Push (In The Bush) with those Bad Girls (toot, toot, yeh, beep, beep!!) 

Cons: none. A 70’s Disco Inferno? That’s The Way I Like It (uh-huh, uh-huh) and Shame Shame Shame, shame on you, if you can’t dance too! 

Go with: Gary’s Gang, Ms Grace, her Sister, Sledge, and Le Freak - coz He’s The Greatest Dancer.  

PS: bonus points to everyone that can identify who recorded all those big disco hits.
Here's one http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j5TlpUF2GGw

READ MY JULY 2013 REVIEW OF MY NIGHT AT DISCO here http://tinyurl.com/qfuqzdg

Don't Be A Dance-floor Donut: The Rules

How embarrassing! Breezing up to a nightclub door, you’re knocked back. Where did you go wrong? Maybe you broke THE RULES. Check out my essential disco dos and don'ts here http://tinyurl.com/bzr6292

(pictured: Studio 54 -the man in the moon's golden rule? 'Let it snow!')

Bunga Bunga, Battersea

If you’re not mates with Charlie Gilkes and Duncan Stirling, owners of Bart’s bar and Maggie’s club, you’re just not Made in Chelsea. I join the show’s cast, along with Beatrice and Eugenie (sans Fergie/ sans hats, sadly) and Pippa Posterior's pin-up bro' James Middleton, slumming it on the Tijuana side of Battersea Bridge at the chaps’ new baby, Bunga Bunga. Described, not unreasonably, as ‘an Englishman’s Italian bar, pizzeria and karaoke’, its lurid O Sole Mio interior, festooned in holiday souvenir kitsch, is hammier than Parma. While tonight’s launch lacks the putanesca spread reportedly laid on thick at bona fide Berlusconi bashes, we’re treated to a right royal Carry On Up The Coliseum. A plumed centurion spins cheesy pop while ‘gondoliers’ frantically struggle to keep up with the cut-glass accents' insatiable thirst for Campari, Martini, Aperol and prosecco-laced Roman rinses . Cocktails to share (from £28) come in Fiat 500 and Leaning Tower of Pisa tiki mugs or are served, Cosa Nostra capo stylee, in a horse’s head - not your genuine Shergar, obviously. Masterstroke! Weighty X-Factor warbler Wagner - thankfully not in a toga - is to be our cabaret. His version of Livin' La Vida Loca sends the room into 'yah' orgiastic rapture. Obviously totally unfairly accused in the infamous Cash for Questions scandal of being being a bit too Bung-ho, Bunga guest Neil Hamilton and his formidable 'friend of Charlie's' missus add to the surreal social Caesar salad. ‘We’re off to Pizza Express,’ brays Signora Battleaxe posing like a one-trick show pony for a loitering pap out front. Judging by the thin crust minis I manage to grab, wrong move, Christine! Islington lefties would happily pay Rentokil to exterminate the punters herein, but Bunga B is not aimed at Guardianistas, its capodimonte set squarely at a SW3, 10 & 7 clientele. Gauging by the bar's early doors popularity and its hooray fan base - Harry Windsor has been in da house, should yo be tilting at a title - it looks like the guys’ gamble will (Pom)peii off (groan!)

37 Battersea Bridge Rd SW11http://www.bungabunga-london.com/

Bentley, South Kensington: Barts, Chelsea

The bijou bar at The Bentley was once an occasional late-night Negroni stop, before the hotel somehow fell off my Gin-dar. Invited to celebrate its acquisition by the Waldorf Astoria Collection, I’m anticipating the five star sensory massage synonymous with that brand. Alas, no makeover to report: in the same old, pre-takeover, garish surroundings - think Imelda Marcos - we discuss sparrow-like society dame Liz Brewer’s curious wardrobe choices and nibble pedestrian canapés to a naff soundtrack by a DJ from Boujis (we’re told): in which parallel universe does anyone want to ever again be subjected to The Gypsy Kings’ Bamboleo, especially at bonce-bothering volume? Great Tanqueray 10 martinis though! The evening is salvaged by my introduction to Barts (pictured), a riotous speakeasy secreted behind a discreet black sliding-door, deep in Chelsea Cloisters, a raffish appartment block in er, Chelsea. New - from the well-connected chaps behind Kitts nightclub - it’s rammed to the gunwales with faces you’ll recognise from après-ski in Val D’(Sloane Square) Isère and Caribbean house parties. Toffy totty is an acquired taste, but Old Fashioned and Daiquiri at £6.95 and Perrier-Jouët at £45 will be right up most folk’s street. Nursery food (macaroni cheese/ shepherd’s pie) comes at retro prices, while the decor is similarly nostalgic: Mickey Mouse wallpaper, cuckoo clocks and ancient trannies - as in radios; but if you’re drawn to drag, there’s a dressing-up trunk filled with wacky gear. The party spirit even gets to charming staff, tonight, got up as The Waltons.

The Bentley, 27 - 33 Harrington Gardens, SW7 7244 5555

Barts, Chelsea Cloisters, Sloane Avenue SW3 7581 3355