Alex Harries's diary

So tonight's little excursion to Tiger Tiger didn't go as planned. Running a little late (hey, it takes time to look this good... Stop laughing at the back of the class), I got stuck in the queue to end all queues. Us Brits have a unique ability to stand about in order, maintaining a careful degree of personal space whilst mentally determing who might need a good elbowing to stop them jumping the queue.

In another land - let's say France as an example (not that I'm bitter at being nearly run over by a school-load of French children armed only with skis and poles while on a skiing trip at the tender age of 11) - there would be a melée of people climbing over each other whilst simultaneously maintaining the bouffant style of their hair (including, in the case of the ladies, their under-arm quiffs. Or at least so I'm led to believe...), managing to keep their Prada handbags perfectly horizontal, and with the men chivalrously laying down coats to prevent mud, blood and other miscellaneous fluids spoiling their other halves' Jimmy Choos.

But in England? No, we're content to stand quietly in line, with the occasional Bouncer On A Power Trip (TM) walking down the line, gloatingly announcing that the venue is full, and that you have "no hope of getting in here tonight mate. Fat chance - why don't you go somewhere more suited to your dresscode? Perhaps a rubbish tip? Or Lidl's?"

And so that was the theme of my night - having made it 3/4 of the way to the front of the Tiger queue (more through less strong-willed people giving up than any actual flow of people into the venue), I eventually gave up as the bouncers started charging up their cattle prods and made my way to Route 66, where I'd been told queues had been abolished in favour of dancing ladies serving alcoholic ice cream... With hindsight, I suspect that may have been a ruse to get me to go there so I could lend my housemate some money. I might ask her when she toddles through the door at silly o'clock, soaking wet (ha - it's raining - that'll teach you to go out and enjoy yourself!). In any case, those dancing ladies serving alcoholic something-or-other turned out to be a lie - there were dancing people, but I can tell you now they were no ladies - and the infamous "One In, One Out" line was being shouted by yet more Bouncers On A Power Trip (TM).

So I ended up heading home. Side-stepping the crowds of already-drunk People Bigger Than Me (TM) (since I'm about as much use in a fight as a crisp packet is as a wind-break), I made my way home - sober, but less broke.

Getting to my front door, I realise I've left my key inside. I knock on the door, and am greeted by a familiar face - it's another Bouncer On A Power Trip (TM) - probably a mail-order bouncer to go with my housemate's mail order bridge (spelling mistake in Google - very embarrassing...) - who tells me that he's very sorry, but my house is full and, while I'm welcome to wait, it could be several months before I'm allowed inside, and even then I'll have to show valid photo ID...