Bar 120

I used to come here when I was particularly tacky.
Dreadlocks, chubbies, bra straps showing, bad hair extensions — this place really does put the whole marina in a disgusting light.
If you have given up on trying to impress or have no taste — come here because it’s a place where you can live it up and still feel better than your surroundings. But you will be paying a fee to experience this particular level of gross.
You’d have a classier time in an outhouse in the bush and that is saying something.

This place is no good.
What’s most laughable is that these people charge a door fee. Granted, they’d be making a fair bit of coin for this given that the line to get in is crazy long… but you will probably regret handing over that tenner.
It doesn’t have a whole lot going for it, the floor is sticky and usually covered in glass. The bands that play are mediocre at best, and they will play the same old covers of the same horrible songs week in and week out. The bathroom is not clean, blah blah blah, Bar120 leaves a lot to be desired. It’s not hard to see why it’s been dubbed «Clubba by the sea.»
It does pull a pretty big crowd and definitely has its regulars, but I’m putting that down to the fact that getting a cab out into the city/​to anywhere decent costs a small fortune, especially for students with a particularly low bank balance like myself.
Better give this one a miss, guys.

If I could give no stars I would. I was dragged along one wednesday night which is ‘supposedly’ a good night to go. Trust me now when I say, it’s not. I don’t think any night is a good night.
I walked up to the place and saw the massive line out the front, we walked to the end, as we walked down the line I saw all sorts of ‘classy’ looking people. Many, many rats tails, a lot of southern cross tattoos, a few bintang singlets and an abundance of short, SHORT dresses. I know at that moment this wasn’t going to be fun.
Once we got into the line, I watched two girls have a fight, which is always a nice sight. The two girls couldn’t have looked more trashy. Long extensions with the clips all on display, g — strings showing through there stupidly tight dresses and words that I wouldn’t want to hear on a building site, coming out their mouths.
I didn’t want to go in, if the club attracts this kind of people, for me its a no. I did go in as my friend wouldn’t of been happy if I had tried to bail, but I feel it was a huge mistake on my part.
If it is even possible it got worse inside, sticky floors with glass all over them, aweful music and a lot of drunk people dancing and swearing. Guys try whatever than can to hit on you, and in a really sleazy way.
Lets just say I didn’t stay long.

I have absolutely no idea why there is a line to get into the place, it is crap and on the one occasion I have been here I had to drink as much as possible to bare the fact I was actually at Bar 1; however I don’t think any amount of alcohol to make this place decent.
The girls look like they have been fished out of a sewer and the males are sleezy, overall the place is dirty and a waste of time. The music is terrible, cheap bands that play, I even saw one person throwing things at them they were so bad. To put it simply I could not be paid enough money to be dragged along to that place ever again.

Having little to no idea what Bar 120 would be like – I’m not originally from Sorrento and no one warned me! – I stumbled in before the cover charge came into effect in search of Mr Walker’s amber restorative. I found it, of course, and drank a few slugs down while a sole dancer, already well-​lubricated, busted a move in the fog of the dance floor.
Supplied by an unseen machine, that fog got heavier as the night wore on. As it wore on, it wore me down, especially as it was becoming increasingly apparent that I was the oldest person in the club by a margin of about five years. To flirt would have made me feel like a cradle snatcher. I put my heavy-​bottomed glass down on the bar and the music made its contents vibrate like the glass of water in Jurassic Park and it occurred to me that it was time to leave. I’m sure the scantily-​clad girls and upturned-​collared boys all had a nice, tequila-​drenched time without me.

Bar 120 has a few names to the locals. Bar one, bar fun, flaming cesspool of disgustingness (that’s my personal fave). And if you’re totally sh**faced, it is bar fun. There is an awesome (not when you’re sober) band that plays all the best rock music, which is intertwined with the latest DJ sets that you can dance away to. In my opinion, the aspects that lets it down is the singlet-​rocking, rat-​tail having bogans that are known to frequent the establishment. You can be sure to find a few waiting in line.
Oh the line, that god forsaken line. I have waited in line at bar one on a Wednesday night for a good two hours. TWO HOURS! And we didn’t even make it inside. The problem lies in the two concurrent lines that run and the bouncers decision as to which line goes in first. So if you get an absolute mong at the front of your line, you destiny lies in a disappointing taxi ride home after not actually making it into the club.
Bar one has been described by some wise people (me) as the Northern suburbs version of Clubba. It’s dirty, dark and seedy but if you’re off your nut you will have an amazing time. And don’t get me wrong, some people live at Bar 120 and wonder why I shudder when I hear the name. But it’s an experience we all need to have at least once in our lives. So get drunk, grab some naïve friends and get down to Bar fun.