I had really high hopes for the night at Bloomsbury Bowl, Shake, Rattle and Bowl. Any pre-conceptions were of the good variety: trusted friends reported only good things about the 60's themed night. Dressed up to the nines, 60's style, I went to see for myself.
Strike 1? A horrendously dressed, hyper-sensitive door girl with an elevated sense of power. She took an immediate dislike to me after I uttered a muttered profanity questioning the rather high entrance fee (my friends paid 5 pounds I for some reason, was fated to pay seven). "You swore at me" she lied. I replied in the negative only to find her dragging a bemused bouncer to the female-jealousy-laden scene. The poor lad was instructed to "keep an eye on her" on little old me? Believe me, there were people more worthy of watching inside.
Strike 2? In an effort to calm myself after the aforementioned ordeal, it was 'to the bar' for a swift G & T. Unfortunately we were met with a long wait and a further bout of rudeness. The bar wench who eventually served us looked like she had encountered more pleasant things than our small party on the sole of her shoe. I promptly turned away to avoid her steely gaze but sadly found I was firmly stuck to the beer-swilled floor like the most reluctant of bees to honey.
Strike 3? Aggressively being ‘moved on’ whilst attempting to scribble my musings onto the back of a napkin.
Three strikes normally signify 'out': only in bowling can strikes ever be considered favourable. Despite the rudeness encountered I may actually venture back to Shake, Rattle and Bowl, if only for the great 60's music, the Grease-like Americana and to sample the bowling lanes. I'll go earlier next time: perhaps the staff only mutate into evil bitches beyond the witching hour.