The queue for entry is an hour. An hour. By the time you’ve sobered up and got through the door after a scrupulous drug search, £15 is taken from you for the pleasure of your company.
“15 quid?” I say to the girl on the door, “It better be worth it.”
“Oh ma gawd yer, like totally. It ‘s completely ramo-ed in there.” She promises.
Gee thanks, after standing in the cold and being robbed I feel so much better knowing I have the pleasure of being elbowed and rubbed up against once I get through the door.
Every corner was jammed, which of course is great for the Sugarhut’s pockets, but not so great for the mood of the place, stripping the venue of any atmosphere and securing its status as a tourist attraction. It’s not a club but a visitation site along the map of Essex. What happens to the customers that came here before the show? They get trampled on by 2,000 tangoed girls with eyelashes so thick and heavy their eyes are held open only by the force of the Redbull in the jaggerbombs coursing through their veins. It’s a live panto version of the ‘Only Way is Essex’ where the truck loads of ‘Geordie Shore’ hopefuls have taken the cameo roles.
A TV screen flashes with images of people having an amazing time while the barmaid chews gum and serves me wine in plastic glasses, having waited in line in another queue for 20 minutes.
“As seen on TV” the screen boasts, “Beautiful people everynight of the week, the West End experience in Essex.”
West End? You’ve just served me my drinks in PLASTIC glasses mate. The only thing West End about this debacle is the prices. I look around for the beautiful people…
Look, it’s a nightclub, I’m not going to be snooty at the disheveled state of the clientele, regardless even of their substance of choice. I've spent enough time in bars and clubs to know that everyone falls over in their beautiful shoes at some point in their lives, it’s a law of gravity- but this slapstick-style scene was in a league of it’s own, a league devoid of any gravitational laws or common sense. I had never seen so many girls that couldn't walk in their shoes; there certainly was not a pair of ballet pumps in sight. Vajazzled girls staggered everywhere, more than several taking a serious tumble during the evening. But hay, that’s all in jest, it just adds to the comedy in this particular scene. It’s what Mollie from the Saturday’s is to Sienna Miller; a poor man’s version of a good thing, something that looks pretty similar but hasn't quite got the edge. Or the class.
Of course it’s important to note that when the original product is a tongue-in-cheek look at the life of Essex-landers, the copy version is never going to be a pretty sight, but this was something else. One guy is so off his face as he rolls around the sofa in his expensive ‘booth’ area he passes over the magnum of grey goose vodka to us standing next to him, jaw clicking. I’m not queuing another 30 minutes for a drink while everybody’s fake tan wipes on over my dress. We take a glug or two each of the massive bottle before someone notices their wasted mate’s generosity and takes the bottle back- they’re not going to share it with the commoners that haven’t spend a grand for a table…Needless to say, unless you've got a table or smooched your way into the VIP area there was no room at all. You couldn't dance in the main dance room, you couldn't get near the bar in either the downstairs room or the RnB room, nor get near the toilets; girls opting to ambush the male bathroom much to their amusement.
(Not to mention the fact that the female toilets were blocked- staff members seen arguing over who was to unblock them.)
Drinks were spilled, feet were stepped on and the place generally resembled an over-dressed mosh-pitt. Credit to the DJ where credit is due, the music was only thing saving my sanity, but although definitely to my taste of dance and rave with excellently executed remixes, it didn't quite fit the ‘West-end’ shape-makers that were suited and booted as if for a day a the races.
The star of ‘Carry on Essex’ is surely Micky Norcross who battled his way through crowds having his photo taken, arriving amid a few ‘whoops’, three girls younger than his son in tow.
Although undeniably devoid of charisma in the ‘BAFTA award winning show,’ this is a very clever man. I won’t claim to know the ins and outs of how out of all the venues filmed Sugar Hut is by far the most plugged in the series, but it certainly is food for thought. For example the infamous proposal of Mark Wright and Lauren Goodger took place in the garden of the lovely Switch bar in South Woodford but is constantly quoted in magazines as having taken place in the Sugar Hut. In fact of the numerous scenes filmed there, producers never showed the front shot, letting Sugar Hut take the publicity.It’s a plug that the Norcross’s have used to their advantage- turning the Brentwood club into a tourist attraction sees the que spilling out on to Brentwood high street, a sight that definitely didn't occur before the ITV2 show’s success, nor the infamous fire that saw the venue gutted and re-vamped.
I discover the next day that we and numerous others were over-charged; having clearly advertised their prices online and over the phone as £10 before 11pm, £15 after, this was not the case at the door.
Having waited in line from 9.30 and being in the main door just after 10.30pm, it clearly wasn’t after 11pm and yet everyone was charged £15? So where’s all that extra money going?
I find myself in a slanging match with the Sugarhut via twitter the following morning, where I’m assured that all the money taken from the door goes into the till at the front. This is offered as a consolation when I asked them if they were aware that their FOH staff were overcharging sugar-hungry customers, but really, it all goes in Norcross’s pockets so why this is supposed to make it better I don’t know. I‘m offered no explanation, no offer of a refund and told “We’re sorry you didn’t enjoy your evening.”
With guest list apparently not being an option (at least not for us ‘nobodies’) on a Saturday night, high prices, queuing for the toilets and the bar, I thank my lucky stars that we didn't have to queue for the exit.
It’s a genuine shame. It’s a beautiful club, well decorated, well put together, the open courtyard and restaurant giving it an edge against competitors and I've had some great nights out here, but the Sugar Hut Group have exploited the cheap instant fame which is certainly filling the tills now, but I cant help but think Micky is going to loose out in the long run. By turning his club into a novelty, people won’t go there twice- they’re going to visit a film set, (a hot sweaty overpriced film set.) It’s an experience, not a good night out- and when the novelty of cheap fame wears off, then what? Locals and regulars have been forced out the door by troops of wannabes, a good Essex night out having turned into a parody of its worst stereotype, leaving me and many others sober and out of pocket by the end of the evening.Conclusion: A place for high rollers willing to splash out for space and service, or a ‘one night stand’ for tourists on tour. No room for regulars any more. No space for Essex.
Micky blue eyes, you’re welcome to prove me wrong.
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