Stringfellows

Why any visiting overseas Politician would want to dine at a Gentleman’s Club with a Political Journalist like me — a girl who has been called every name conceivable — except a lady — was a little beyond my comprehension at the time. But ‘hell’s bells’ I thought, he either had amorous fantasies about titillating ‘yours truly’ for ‘later’ or else, he thought it might be a novel place to be interviewed. What did I care. My Editor picks up the tab on these events and besides, I gave up long ago trying to work out how Political figures think, act or behave when not giving moralising speeches.
I’d heard of Stringfellows before — just like everyone else in London who has libidinous hormones that still function — so I was more than curious to see inside.
Okay, so the place is plush. Ageing lothario-​cum entrepreneur Peter seems to have two establishments and hasn’t spared the loot on décor. One in Soho and this one in Covent Garden. I prefer any Covent Garden venue any day of the week to a Soho establishment, whether it be the theatre or merely a sleazy casino. I may never have been called a lady, but a snob… sure, many times!
Two floors and a really nice eating area, with no fattening food that could do anything to alter the trim figure of this 102 Lb girl who can eat like a horse as well as ride a winning nag with the best of them.
To discuss the cost of going to a Gentleman’s Club and eating in the restaurant is totally irrelevant here. Others can do that. Let’s just say, be sure to come LOADED, besides, as the chaps who venture down this alley mostly go to ogre scantily clad girls and more — and who can blame them — so dosh, bread, loot or moolah can hardly be an issue with the majority. Let’s just say, the place simply exists to ‘Sting-​fellows’ and they do that very admirably indeed. So, enough for me to say the food was more than excellent and I just couldn’t complain in the slightest. Many choices of tasty European cuisine on offer — even for the most discerning gourmet.
But, as for the dancers. Well, I’m not sure who auditions these gals, some certainly had ‘it’ and others were so scrawny they needed a damn good feed themselves from the kitchen — or those who already had far too many roast dinners at home — but, as one spirited young thing whispered to me, they actually have to pay Peter a fee to have the privilege of even being there. Getting it from both sides hey Pete, wow, not bad at all.
So, whether entertaining a room full of ‘oglers’ or repairing to the private compartments with those willing to contribute to the ‘worthy’ cause for a more ‘Private Routine’ must mean there’s a pretty decent lucrative side to it all, considering the countless girls who infested the joint.
Clearly sliding up and down on Poles is okay (and there wasn’t a Czech in sight) for just the very dexterous — or perhaps even ideal for Hookers way over in Warsaw, but g-​stringed table dancers in the hallowed halls of Covent Garden should appear slightly more ‘regal’ being the home of the Royal Opera House and the Royal Ballet — however, I am forgetting where I am. This place is certainly full of the three B’s — Boobs, Bottoms and Bouncers!
It’s not a place for a young Lady to be taken, but as I didn’t qualify for that label, but only as a hardened Journalist who has seen it all and maybe even dare I say, done it all, then I could be more than objective.
Champagne, the most over-​rated drink in the world, should never be sold for hundreds of pounds a bottle. But, clearly the girls flash certain parts of their anatomy while fluttering their elongated eye lashes and ask the guy if they would like a dance and to buy the libation, and as guys want to please their uninhibited companion — then the money flows… and Peter beams.
A chap may not see this as a plush rip off joint till the next morning where he opens his decidedly vacant wallet with clearer eyes and a pounding head, but I saw it before my eyes and kudos to the visiting Politician who was with me. He agreed. ‘Daylight Robbery’ or perhaps, considering the hour ‘Mid-​night Robbery’ he said salivating on that dimly lit night — inside and out. And, as I pondered — out of the mouth of an expert, wouldn’t he know all about that!

Has Peter Stringfellow cut his mullit yet? His hair screams «Business up top– party in the back!». This is the UK’s version of a douchey Hugh Hefner– though I will give it to Little Petey– he isn’t quite as creepy as that Viagra-​pumped Hefner. Clubs– no matter which kind– in this part of town are awful!