Every wall is a door…

…so said transcendental revolution-fiend Ralph Waldo Emerson, but he obviously wasn’t looking ahead 100 years to the nightlife scene in Sydney where every door is very much a wall.

A wall guarded by a man-sentry usually.

In London, bars and clubs are usually open to whoever has the shekels to pay the entry fee, or at worst they’re patrolled by a genetically blessed 20 year old with film star teeth and a pretty clipboard. In Sydney getting into any bar above shack calibre requires cunning and guile. Once a full and valid passport has been produced and inspected, there are smiles to flash, feet to kiss and bribes to offer. A conversation to get into bespoke hotspot Tatler may go something like this…

Group of flouncy young things approach hidden door covered by iron grate. Eyes appear from the darkness

Group Of Flouncy Young Things (G.O.F.Y.T): Um, hello, can we please come in?
Eyes (seemingly confused): Why?
G.O.F.Y.T: Oh, to have a drink please, I mean if that’s ok?
Eyes: Oh

All concerned shuffle feet. Eyes disappear.

G.O.F.Y.T: um…hello?
Eyes (returning from distance): You want to come in…NOW?
G.O.F.Y.T: I mean that would be great, if it’s all right and all…my friend Nick knows the owner and he said that it would be…(trails off)

Minutes pass. Grate opens…money is exchanged. Flouncy Young Things appear relieved and smile gratefully at Eyes.

This is not uncommon. Upon approaching new, trendy venue, The Oxford Art Club, the chiselled doormen regard you as if you are walking into a family lunch wearing a G-string. ‘What are you DOING here?’ their eyes ask you. ‘What could you POSSIBLY want?’ echo their folded arms. They confer. At best, lowly punter is allowed to shuffle inside.

It’s a jungle out there. Even the locals can be seen bargaining, wheedling and full on arguing with the wall-door overlords.

If you are on your way to Sydney, don’t waste any of your charm on the air-hostesses, immigration staff or friends and family. Bottle it. You’re going to need it