The Mayfair club safari

Mayfair nightclubs are some of the most coveted destinations in the country. As stars such as Justin Bieber, Usain Bolt and Rita Ora flock to the West-London hotspots it’s easy to get caught up in the excitement, dash to the nearest cash point, withdraw your entire overdraft and catch a tube to Green Park for a night on the tap water.

When you arrive you’ll wait for way too long in the ‘guest list’ queue everyone else is in, you’ll be interrogated by the bouncer, inspected by the random lady who serves no real purpose but to decide whether you’re attractive enough to get through the hallowed doors, then you’ll empty your wallet and descend in to the abyss below.

When you get in, here’s everyone you’ll meet:

The promoter

You’ve probably exchanged a few borderline-creepy Whatsapps and been told girls should be in heels and a dress and boys smartly dressed (but preferably nonexistent), but now you’ve got to awkwardly find them in the club.

Devastatingly attractive, devastatingly charming, almost always male, it’s a shame the majority of promoters are arse holes. They’ll lure you in to their little London caves with promises of free Grey Goose on their VIP table, though in reality you’ll find yourself cramped around socially inept 20 somethings sipping those weird red mixers, hoping if you imagine there’s more than 10ml of vodka in your drink it might trigger a placebo.

The jobsworth door staff

At most clubs, the door staff are limited to a couple of butch blokes looking you aggressively up and down before eventually letting you in. Mayfair clubs are more akin to Israeli passport control.

It begins with a patience test: how long can you stand in line before you eventually decide to Foxtrot Oscar someplace else. Next is the primary ID check, usually carried out by your stereotypical bouncer who you definitely shouldn’t try and make jokes with.

This is followed by an inspection from a lady, usually wearing a fur coat and weird floppy hat, who will decide whether you’re fit enough to get inside, potentially turning you away or letting only the sexiest few in, and shooting you the most judgmental eyes you’ve come across in your whole life.

Finally, you’ll be taken slightly in to the porch (you think you’ve made it, you haven’t yet), where some moody bloke will scan your ID, before being pushed in a single-file queue towards an even moodier, but very attractive, lady who will flutter her eyelashes at you so you feel slightly less bad about dropping £20 on entry.

The most miserable girls in the world

You can’t blame them for being miserable, but it would be nice if they smiled more than just when they’re taking a picture. Almost always the best looking girls in the club, they’ve not spent a penny getting in and seem totally unwilling (justifiably given the cost) to buy themselves a drink.

They’re the kind of girls who come every single night yet still can’t fathom the fact eight inch heels are too big to dance in. Instead, they’ll sit there all night waiting for a rich bloke to invite them to their table where they’ll trade a few flirty eye-lid flutters for never-ending champagne and apple ciroc. Then they’ll take loads of pictures smiling with their new-found Belvedere and spaff them all over Instagram the next evening (at prime time).

The Russians

One moment you’ll be happily slut-dropping to Krept and Konan, the next you’ll be blinded by an obscene array of sparklers almost setting you on fire as scantily-clad waitresses carry bottles of glow-in-the-dark Dommy P and Belvedere towards the dimly lit corner of the club.

As the bottles grow closer to the table the sparklers light up the sharp faces of men dressed in shirts and blazers, pocket squares and all, trying their best to look unimpressed at the display. They’ve just dropped £800 on their two bottles of champagne but they’re not bothered: they look sick.

As the vodka goes down and their cash-filled briefcases grow ever emptier they begin to loosen up, ultimately inviting the miserable girls from earlier to their soulless table. Eventually they head home, alone, and drop Papa a text asking for more money.

The 18th birthday girls

Groups of 18 year-old boys don’t get in to Mayfair clubs so if you see a cluster of uncomfortable looking punters they’ll inevitably be female. They’ll look uncomfortable because they’re having a shit time – this is supposed to be it: the famous London nightlife experience, the big smoke, CLUBBING.

Their hopes and dreams for everything ‘clubbing’ had to offer has been shattered by their first night-out in St James’. They look judgingly at the person who bumps in to them on the dance floor, they’re not sure whether to order shots or mixers, they can’t quite remember how much Daddy said they could put on his card. It’s crap, it’s all crap and they’re never going to go clubbing again.

The awkward boy

He’s probably made the fatal error of joining a girls night out and now he’s regretting it as the girls flirt with far more attractive boys on the other side of the dance floor and he’s been left awkwardly alone in a desperate bid to avoid upsetting anyone.

You’ll probably see him nipping back from the loo as the toilet attendant becomes ever-more suspicious he’s doing more than just sitting on Facebook in the cubicle, or he’ll be on the phone to his mate in the smoking area or awkwardly waiting at the bar ready to order two tap waters for a made up friend who’s had one too many.

The overly aggressive cleaner

Granted, it must be a relentless and soul-destroying job, but the cleaners in Mayfair clubs have absolutely no chill. Whether they’re scooping discarded glasses off the dance floor or mopping up spilt gin (can you blame anyone for throwing it on the floor), you can guarantee they’ll do it in the most arsey way possible.

What you think is someone about to drop a mad twerk is actually more likely to be a cleaner throwing their bum out in despair of their night spent tending to bellends who get more money from their parents a week than they get in a year.

The toilet attendant

Everything about a Mayfair night oozes class. People wear classy dresses, drink classy vodkas and sit on classy sofas. Yet this whole facade is dropped when you walk in to an appropriately classy toilet which finds itself in a complete paradox as you’re confronted by a man chanting things like, “no soap, no hope”, “no armani, no punani” or my personal favourite, “no splash, no gash.”

You’ll inevitably tell him/her  you’ll be back with a tip as soon as you’ve got a drink from the bar as you leave the toilet smelling like an awful cocktail of Paco Rabanne and CK in2u. You both know you have no intention of buying a drink, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

The rich old guy

We’ve all heard stories of our parents or our friends parents’ going clubbing. They’ve gone for a nice meal at some restaurant you’ve never heard of and after a few too many Pinot Noirs have ended up in Tonteria. It’s classic and we love it.

What people don’t love is those weird, grey-haired men who come in on their own and stand awkwardly at the side of the dance floor with a glass of wine deciding who to groom next. Seemingly oblivious to the fact everyone is starting at them, these creepy clubbers swoop into unassuming groups of nineteen year old girls and offer to buy them a drink.

Nobody’s quite sure of the dynamic: the girls know they’re not going to get with him, the barman knows, presumably the sixty year old bloke knows it’s all a little weird, yet for some reason he comes every week and manages to have conversations long enough to make him come back.

The boys who didn’t get in

You’ve had your fun for the night, the vodka has run out on your table and everyone’s a little jolly. As you walk up the stairs towards the fresh air above, you notice the eight boys who were next to you in the queue arguing with the door staff.

They’re saying things like, “this is sexist, it’s ridiculous” and “how come you let all of them in but not us?” They’ve clearly had a shit time and they’re not going to stand for it – they’re so enraged they’ve stood at the door for three and a half ours making empty threats at a woman who couldn’t care less whose Dad is a lawyer.

The token celebrity

You’ve heard countless stories of One Direction rocking up in Mahiki, but you’ve not even seen Union J. Inevitably, one sightly famous person will walk in and you will go MAD. You might not even have recognised them at first but your friend told you who it was and your fairly sure you’ve heard their name at some indistinguishable point in your life.

Snapchat comes out, you try to subtly take pictures but forget the flash, you pretend to walk in to them, you judge the person they’ve clearly come with and you go home and tell all your mates you saw Cody Simpson at Libertine.

They’ll reply: “Who?”