ENTERTAINMENT NEWS

TUPNews recently visited Nottingham, in England’s The North.

It’s difficult for the Londoner to praise the nightlife of the smaller cities without sounding patronising: nevertheless, I was pleasantly surprised. Is Northern nightlife actually the best? London is always trying so hard to be new; the South is always trying to so hard to be London – for effortless, unpretentious class, try Manchester or Nottingham. Or not – I don’t really know, it’s not my area of expertise. But I had a good night. Highlight: chatting up the wife of the lead singer of Six-by-Seven in the Social after flashing my press card and pretending to be an NME freelancer compiling a venue directory.

While our night began and ended in stylish drinking dens, our choice of eaterie was a little left field. Faced with a thirty-minute queue for a table at Wagamama’s, TUPNews and companion took the only respectable course of action for two young lads out on the town on a Saturday night: we went to Hooters.

The Hooters formula is very simple: take a normal American sports bar, insist that all waitresses dress in hot pants and tight, white T-shirts; increase bar and food prices by roughly 50%. Launched in Florida in 1983, there are now over three hundred such restaurants in the United States of America, as well as a Hooters magazine, a Hooters Mastercard and even a Hooters airline. The concept hasn’t really taken off outside of America, however: the Nottingham branch is the only one in the UK.

I’m not surprised: the girls aside, it is a charmless place. Tackier than stablemate TGI Fridays, the clientele is exclusively male, hollow-eyed and slightly moneyed – like a Nuts magazine focus group. All were in packs: seated at a table for two, my companion and I actually looked slightly gay. Dozens of flat screens feed international sports into a room charged with frustration. The whole dynamic is a bit weird – there are so many men and so few women that it does almost feel like a gay bar. This is also true of strip clubs, I suppose, but that’s stage-based entertainment – you’re there for a purpose. The girls here don’t entertain you beyond simply looking attractive and pouring you beer; there are lots of places you can go for that. What is the point of actually being there? Are you supposed to just stare at them? Everyone seemed a little uncertain.

But the girls redeem the experience, just, through their sheer Englishness. Let the Yanks keep their bottle-blonde, heavily-made, Pilates-buff sirens. Ours is a nation of shopgirls, thank God: I’ll take the puppy fat and girl-next-door charm of these Sherwood maids every time. Reader! I swear I fell in love with each and every one.

Just as we were leaving, I saw something that had me in stitches. Two gorgeous, stick-thin platinum blondes of scant dress walked into the basement bar, coolly walked up to the pool table and put their 50p down. They gave the incumbent players a little wink; about fifty men stopped and stared. Talk about knowing what you want and where to get it!