Fucking hell

Never do things ‘for a laugh’, as it invariably ends up unfunny. Never do things ‘with irony in mind’, because it is rarely worth it. We say these things because on Friday night we headed with a non-local friend of ours to 5th Avenue, both for a laugh and with irony in mind. What a fucking mistake.

The club in question, for the uninitiated, is a cretin-ridden shitheap, where desperate Karen O clones and Faris Rotter wannabes collude with beer-drenched types in ’vintage’ t-shirts amongst the stench of body odour, Roller Red Bull and an annoyingly incessant smoke machine to create probably the vilest atmosphere this side of the planet Venus.

As well as the delight of witnessing countless students bingeing their way to a Desmond on irresponsibly-priced drinks, one can also look forward to 40-minute toilet queues, fights and casual sexual assaults taking place throughout the venue.

That isn’t to mention 5th Avenue’s new smoking policy, which invites patrons to queue for thirty minutes and PAY A POUND, just for the privilege of enjoying one of their own cigarettes, in what can only be described as a vomit-strewn pen, in the alley outside.

Anyone ignorant of this policy who mistakenly steps out without a ‘smoking wristband’ is forced to queue up and pay the club’s £5 entry fee again (and that’s just the lucky ones: we witnessed two bouncers kicking a bloke halfway across Princess Street for this gross act of negligence, despite his repeated pleas for clemency). Truly, money-grabbing cuntery does not come in a purer form.

The ‘security’ at 5th Avenue is old school. Burly bastards prowl the venue, looking for a way of expending their pent-up coke fury, of reconciling their burning self hatred. There is fire in their eyes. Men and ugly women are the enemy. Violence is the only way.

And, luckily for the bar staff, this violence is not just meted out to young male customers. A glass-collecting friend of ours once recounted having his arm ‘nearly broken’ by a doorman while another kicked his leg like a football, all in the name of ‘banter’. Hilarious.

Hopefully there will be another drug war soon and some of them will be shot in the stomach. Then, as they ebb away on the cobbles, a fat man can lean over them and shout, ‘get up and fuck off home, you’re annoying me now’. See how they like it.

Overall, 5th Avenue is a bit like Colditz, only less friendly and inviting. That for six nights a week, our future lifeblood gather there like subnormal, confused sheep, desperate for their fill of cheap drinks and third rate indie, is nothing short of a massive embarrassment.

For this place to have become one of the premier draws for young people means something, somewhere has gone badly wrong. 5th Avenue is a turd smeared across the face of everyone who cares about this city’s nightlife and a shit in the pocket of those who work tirelessly towards its furthering. That its rampant popularity shows no sign of waning is even more depressing.