The only way is Essex (if you don’t mind queuing an hour for the toilet and spending more money on your drinks than your outfit).
It’s the end of October, and the cold wind is splashing the rain all over my new heels. Thank god I don’t have to wait in the queue. I had already found out that there’s a high probability you won’t even get close to the bouncers on a Saturday night, so I’m glad I reserved a table at Masons first, the joint restaurant next door.
After arriving a bit late, the waitress at reception happily located us to our table in a cosy nook at the back. On the way I notice that not one table is empty, and everyone is dressed in their best. I presume they all had the same idea; a two course meal at Mason’s automatically gives you VIP entry into the club – which means no waiting in the rain, and a streak-free Essex glow.
At a glance, the menu horrifies me with its double figures beside each dish – unless you count a side salad as a fulfilling meal. I finally decide on the chilli tiger prawns and the vegetable lasagne, which were quickly delivered to my leather placemat. I have to admit the food is worth me being penniless for the night, as the crispy cheese topping was to die for and the portions would put Jamie Oliver to shame.
After the meal we all pay £10 to receive our VIP wristbands and queue jump straight into the club – before being confiscated of all chewing gum, to protect their ‘expensive décor’. A bit drastic in my opinion considering the beautiful historic building is destroyed with mismatched wallpaper and sticky floors. Don’t even get me started on the garish Buddha statues.
After much pushing and shoving (from other guests may I add) we finally make it to the outside bar. It would have looked beautiful with its cosy gazebos and candle lit tables – if it could actually be seen through the thick cloud of nicotine. Mick Norcross (the owner) could also have taken into consideration when designing the club, that cobbles are not a girl’s best friend when wearing heels. Stumbling to the bar I stumble even further when the barman tells me the price of a gin and tonic. At £8.15 it would shock a Londoner.
Shamefully I take my drink to the main DJ room hoping to myself it will last the rest of the night. At 11:30pm the club is at its busiest, and I can barely move. Dancing is off the cards then.
We then decide to find the toilets, and after half an hour of looking we get to a horrifically long line of whingeing girls. I think we found them. Two in fact – in the entire club. As we get close to the front of the queue a fight breaks out between two Essex blondes in front of us. As a stiletto narrowly misses my face, we decide it’s about time we head home.
Unless you are a dedicated fan of TOWIE or like to be ripped off with average drinks and moving space that battery-farmed chickens would disapprove of, I wouldn’t pay the Sugar Hut a visit. However the restaurant was lovely- just don’t travel there for a salad.