Mayfair and vodka for free, not for me

The lucrative and elegant area Mayfair hides a bundle of posh and classy clubs. There is only three ways to get in, being rich, famous or being a pretty girl in heels.

Thousands of promoters work in the area, constantly looking for beautiful young women to bring as fish bates for the club’s actual costumers: the rich businessmen. Unfortunately, I am not rich or famous but I am a girl who has couple of tight dresses hidden in the back end of her closet.

When I first moved to London I thought ‘entry and drinks for free if you wear heals and short dresses’ was an urban myth. But after a couple of weeks in Europe’s capital I realised it was something that happened every day.

After begging my very beautiful and experienced Mayfair clubber friend to bring me, she finally gave in as long as I promised to wear heals.

First thing that struck me was the timing, going to a club before 10 is unusual. We met by the train station while the sun was still up, all dressed up.

You get served vodka with sweet cranberry or orange juice

Drinking wine on the SouthWest train will never be classy. Standing outside the club right after sunset, not in the queue, but on the other side waiting for the promoters with other attractive girls, is also not very classy. Sitting in an empty club sober, waiting for a bottle of vodka and mixers to the table for a very long time is far from classy.

I ended up spending the night talking to the security guard outside. He was the only one that did not look me from top to toe before deciding to start a conversation. The night felt like wasted time and Uber money badly spent.

Even though I hated that night in Mayfair, I ended up going again. This time around we brought some guy friends, surprisingly they only had to pay £20 and got to drink for free. Dull conversations and constantly waiting for a drink refill is not very exciting. The guys were far from impressed and the promoter that brought us was acting strange having to serve the guys as well. I stayed for a while but ended up ringing another friend and met up with them in Shoreditch. Where I paid for my own drinks.

I had sworn to myself that I would say no the next time I was asked to go out with a promoter. But when I went to New York as a 20 year-old, I had to do it again, this time with the Wall Street boys. With no ID scan we came in front of the queue. The first thing served was a bottle of expensive champagne and on the stage was a skinny dancer in sequin underwear swinging her hips back and forth. No matter how classy it was, I missed the good conversations. It was so boring that we left the Manhattan club early and had burgers and oily fries instead.

Yet again, I swore to myself that I would not go again, but I did. This time to The Box in Soho, Mayfair’s close neighbour. The club is described with ‘mystique and sexual openness’, and I really wanted to go. We got escorted, by what appeared as Victoria Secret Angel’s, to our table. I swear Will Smith’s, son Jaden Smith served us free drinks but I guess he was just a good look-alike. An R-Kelly figure opened the show only dressed in leather trousers, a big open fur coat and of course a gold chain.

The night felt like time wasted and Uber money badly spent

The night felt like time wasted and Uber money badly spent

I saw things I cannot describe. There is a no photo rule, which I believe is a good thing. I truly enjoyed that night, even though going to the toilet was a total disaster. We did not get a stamp and the promoter had to come get us if we left the show area for even a second, which could take a good 20 minutes. The small issues with promoters are always close to wreck a good night.

I get that I am not the typical clientele for Mayfair, and I understand that going out with promoters is something a lot of people truly enjoy. But to be fair it is far from the “classiness” that appears on Instagram. It is not for me, and I do promise myself yet again that I will swap a night in Mayfair in heals with a weird looking pub and a pint of beer any day of the week.

About Martine Berg Olsen

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