Fox Bar, Brixton

This new Brixton booze bunker is in Piano House, a creative hub in a converted Victorian warehouse. I remember this dive from my one previous visit when it was Substation South, owned by Erik Yu (Opium/ Burlock/ 68 and Boston). With my fashion show producers hat on, I'd hired its DJ, Martin Confusion, to develop a trip-hop soundtrack for a client - Katharine Hamnett, if my memory serves me well. What I do distinctly remember was rocking up at the club to discuss ideas, only to find his gig was a raunchy gay uniform night. Not much was achieved: well, you try concentrating, surrounded by 'squaddies' in the noddy, hard at it on manoeuvres that are far from Geneva conventional! Having been totally transformed (and doused in bleach, I trust), the sometime sex-pit now hosts Soho House’s latest whizz; a drinking den inspired by the old taverns of Chicago, in which city the same group’s original Fox Bar is based on traditional English taverns, I'm told. Confused? Here’s the 411. Fox Bar sits in a narrow arch next door to a branch of Soho House’s Chicken Shop roll-out. There’s barely room for thirty souls in what feels like a sanitised take on the sort of joint Frankie Machine - the fly by night hero of Chicago novelist Nelson Algren’s The Man with the Golden Arm - might have drunk at with his dissolute buds before graduating to injecting his veins with something a little stronger than Banana Penicillin, one of the drinks on a list worked up by Soho House’s global creative bar manager, Tom Kerr. Other classy £8 fixes (pun intended) that might have been less detrimental to Frankie’s health than his class A intake include Old Pal (a Rittenhouse rye Negroni), Southside Collins, Boulevardier and Nitro (espresso) Martini, the latter two on tap. Chuck in chicken bits and craft beers; Brixton’s baddest will be quickly hooked.

Piano House, 9 Brighton Terrace SW9 8DJ Facebook Fox-Bar-Brixton

Lounge Bar at The Hoxton Holborn, Holborn

I've gravitated towards hotel bars since I was persuasive enough to convince their barmen to serve me. As an easy-on-the-eye, precocious 15-year-old, I'd loiter in the better ones, sipping tequila sunrises. Fancying myself the height of sophistication, I'd put the make on  hot older guests flying solo. After an educational field trip upstairs, randy on Ruinart from my prey's minibar, I'd expect to be gifted something by Saint Laurent or Gucci the next day for having been a gold star student. Populated by good-looking fash-caj types - to the point that two lone businessmen in grey suits stick out like pork pies at a bar mitzvah -The Lounge Bar at The Hoxton Holborn would have once been fertile cruising ground for me. Given my current dishevelment, I'd be lucky to attract a ten-bob-the-job, tired old tart from Talinn. Not that I'm suggesting the oldest profession stalks the Hoxton Holborn's corridors. At 8.30 am, fragile, pale and clammy, I'm beginning to regret last night's orgy. A "FOUR IN A BED ROMP" as The Sun would have it? Sadly, Four In A Bed on Channel 4 is of more interest to  me these days...but never say "never", for hope springs eternal. After barely three hours' kip in one of the hotel's 'cosy' rooms (and an argument with the shower), I'm suffering the hangover of the month...so far. Mixing Champagne, Palomas, Tommy's margaritas, espresso martinis, corpse revivers, rhubarb bitter-tinged Brooklyn cocktails - and Midori and methadone mojitos for all I can remember - seemed like a good idea at 2 am as the hotel's epic launch party raged on. I do recall that the event kicked off with an inspired immersive production that saw the whole place turned into one big film shoot, with guests roped in as extras (not, on paper, my cup of tea but great fun as it transpired). My only hope of salvation lies in the full English I've ordered in the busy lobby downstairs - assessing that the concierge's contacts don't stretch to organising an emergency blood transfusion  in situ. Of scant consolation, is the prospect of last night's host, the hotel's PR, across the table. A fellow renegade half my age, she looks twice as rough. (Dem yoot? Lightweights!) Made of stronger stuff, another party survivor looks more chipper. "Apparently, all the alcohol in the lobby's fridges can be purchased by guests at near enough retail prices," he tells me. "Can't wait to rock up with the boys at 2am, check into a room and cane it all night. Cheaper than taxis back to mine." he says, already there. There was a time when I'd have found such a proposition irresistible. As it is, future evenings at the Hox Hobe's slouchy 50s-revisted bar, will be restricted to civilised tippling, rabbit on toast, steak and chips, patty melts or super healthy salads from in-house Brooklyn-style grill Hubbard and Bell... and taxis before midnight. At least, that's what I tell myself this morning.
199 - 206 High Holborn WC1V 7BD  7661 3000 https://thehoxton.com 

Aqua Shard, London Bridge

(Huh? You want to see pictures? Go buy a drink and see for yourself, cheapskate!) 

"EEEEH! I can't wait for you to take me up the Shard" squeals excited highest-high-rise-in-town virgin. "That could be a line from Carry on Cruising had that camp caper been set in a Vauxhall orgy room," I say. But 31 stories up, across the lobby from Oblix - "the restaurant that nobody is raving about" as ES mag's restaurant critic assassinated it - assassins and orgy rooms are the vibe I'm getting at Aqua Shard - all 1990s Manhattan power-tower, hard-edged, shiny-sleek-and-angular. So darkly lit is it by night, I expect to rub Armani shoulders with Patrick Bateman among the assembled suits . "The barmen have complained they can't see properly" says a staffer peering at me in the gloaming. "Pay them in carrots? Issue Davy lamps?" I offer, helpfully. Of course, what Patrick really came for, is a vista that reminds him of his old stomping ground. Londoners haven't yet grown as blasé as New Yorkers about  ogling their city, spread out like Toytown, from on high. I still get a thrill seeing London from its new breed of  sky-lounges. I do, however manage to keep my cool and not  point excitedly and whoop, as one Shardy novice does tonight, "Look! I can just about make out my Nan's street in West Ham." Not that I had a 'Nan', let alone one unfortunate enough to live in that exotic burb. I am marvelling at a Lilliputian Tower Bridge far below, all the while being schmoozed in one ear by Aqua S's chatty Neapolitan bar manager, a simpatico sort who can shoot the breeze about shit other than drinks, thankfully. But after 30 minutes, my throat now as dry as manager Manuel's hometown in July, I'm going American Psycho for a drink. Fortunately, I have no axe to grind with Signor Chattisimo's martinis. These killers are well worth the wait. Aztec Tinez, despite its dubious name, is a fine Olmeco blanco and chocolate tea bitters twist on a martinez. Top call at £14, old times revival, works too - unlikely as Tanqueray 10, olive grappa, green walnut liqueur, Benedictine, Kümmel, Tio Pepe and artichoke sound as glass-mates.  I'd unreservedly urge you to take yourself  yourself up The Shard - I imagine Ann Summers has a suitable toy - if only for a rinse and a butcher's. As for a loo with a view; pointing Percy at the porcelain and peeing on Peckham? Talk about piss elegance! That's a term I'd also apply to our patchy Mod Brit dinner. Let's just leave it at... tricksy....and too many ingredients fighting for attention on one plate, maybe?   

Level 31The Shard, St.Thomas St SE1 9RY 7478 0540 www.aquashard