I don’t care if Bieber’s there, I bloody hate Bootsy Bellows
The ‘dance floor’ is essentially the side of a children’s sand pit – just significantly less fun
I don’t now whether it’s my penchant to go out in trainers, or perhaps my longing for a Factory Friday but there’s something about Bootsy Bellows that I just do not like.
Actually, it’s not something, it’s a variety of things and each winds me up as much as the next.
Getting it in
Let me start complaining with a British favourite: the queue. Or ‘the line’ as I know you prefer to call it.
It is, in a word, deceiving. Now lets just take a second to clarify that I am used to queuing around the corner of a club, and usually I enjoy it. It’s a chance to finish my drink in the line (which I relish) and I arrive at the club in the knowledge that I will be in the queue for however long.
Bootsy Bellows on the other hand has a lovely short line… but about five of them. And if you rock up at 12.30 a.m without a promoter you are, for want of a better word, fucked.
No amount of flirting or use of the foreign accent will help you here.
Line after line
Well done you, you’ve made it in. Give yourself a clap on the back. You are a winner already, especially in my eyes.
But now you’re bursting for the loo/restroom/bathroom (whatever) and there is yet another queue.
Add this to the line for the first drink and that’s the first forty minutes of your night gone (minimum).
Whilst this is a fabulous way to meet your new best girlfriend (don’t we all make our best friends in the restroom?) and presents you with the opportunity to pick up some fine gent at the bar, as a Brit abroad this entire process makes my blood boil.
** Side note: the drinks are strong and the restroom attendants are lovely which is really all that matters.**
Dancing Queens
May I also take a second to discuss the amount of dancers situated around Bootsy Bellows. The ones that upset me the most are the cowgirls on the bar.
I’m getting my drink; weighing up the opportunity cost of vodka and sprite versus a glass of champagne (the only thing I can remember from first year economics), when all of a sudden there’s a cowboy boot on my purse and a fishnet, denim short clad bum in my face as I’m shouting at the bar tender for my beverage.
Perhaps this angers me because, full disclosure, I wanted to be a coyote (knowledge of the film Coyote Ugly is pretty key here guys) or perhaps it’s just because it’s fucking annoying.
Girls in nets
Taking a little rest at your table (yet another aspect of American clubbing I am yet to see the point of) and having a mosy around the club there is the somewhat confusing sight of a woman caught in a net.
Is this Jumanji? Or Lost? Should I get out my pocketknife and cut her free? Oh no, she’s supposed to be up there… WHY? What purpose does she serve?
I have quite literally no idea. Please stop.
The Puppeteer
However, perhaps the most disturbing thing about Bootsy, which admittedly I have only seen once (but once is enough), is the dancing puppeteer.
Second to clowns, puppets are terrifying.
This freakish dancing puppet has stayed in my mind for weeks and both confused and terrified me. Go home and don’t come back.
I’m not being sizeist
Finally, Bootsy Bellows is about the size of an arctic lorry and the ‘dance floor’ is essentially the side of a children’s sand pit – just significantly less fun.
In addition, the tables result in awkward clumps of people which are nightmarish to navigate through and significantly hinder the pulling opportunities: less than ideal.
Which leads me to conclude this: Bootsy Bellows, despite being the local haunt for Justin Bieber, Drake and I don’t care who else, winds up being the type of night where the hangover really isn’t worth it.