I've been to some dreadful places in my time, but Corridor is just about the worst of the lot.
Before I even begin, I'll point you in the direction of what this bar thinks of itself without any trace of irony:
"Nobody can tell you you are cool, you just know it. Five years ago, passing somebody in the street wearing white earbuds would elicit a knowing nod although strangers to each other, iPod owners considered themselves a clique, a cabal of cool... knowledge of Corridor's existence and location is spreading, usually by word of mouth and pretty soon, like the iPod it will ingratiate itself to the masses but thanks to the simplicity of the door policy (if you can find it, you can come in) and the focus on great drinks and service. Corridor will be cool for many years to come."
Honestly. Anyone reading that with at least a trace of a rudimentary brain-cell should be wanting to hunt the place down and level it with as many explosives and bulldozers as possible.
Stepping inside this hell-hole is when the suffering really begins.
Red-lights adorn the area, complete with Curiosity Killed The Cat's 'Greatest Hits' being churned out of the in-house PA at ear-bleeding volume, leaving patrons to slink cod-disaffectedly on the red sofas, trying to read each other's lips on the off-chance anyone might say something of even the slightest significance.
If they enjoy being here, then it is a safe bet that they're saying nothing interesting at all, leaving everyone else to slump in their chairs wishing someone would come and give them a lethal injection to end the unrelenting misery of this irritating hipster-gland.
I managed to find myself faced with an achingly wacky bar-staff, all dressed in lab-coats. One of them fancied himself as something of a comedian. In reality, he was the flesh and bones equivalent of a novelty tie. Alas, no law has been passed where you can force people like him face-first through paper-shredders.
To the right of the bar was a 'hilarious' chalk-board with formulas and equations on for patrons to work out. You'd be wrong in thinking that people ignore it as three dunderheads gamely stood by trying to work out whatever pointless equation it was, presumably in the name of a free drink.
On top of this, the prices on the bar were extortionate and there was nothing on tap. Anyone who actually pays to buy a bottle of Bud should be thrashed to within an inch of their lives. I got a dark rum concoction and, to be quite frank, it was dismal.
Almost apologetically, a fat man in a lab coat was sent around the venue to serve up experimental booze-treats. That means a big spoon with vodka jelly on and some cream that tasted like vermouth. As interesting as it sounded, the screwed up faces belied the polite approval it brought as the fat man revelled in the only attention he'd ever got in his life from absolutely anyone.
One good thing about Corridor is that the man who served me my drink was so thick that he gave me a tenner instead of a fiver in my change. I saw that as compensation for having to endure a hideous, grotesque place that had the soulless bon homie of a wine-bar in a crap '80s American sitcom.
Thanks to all of the above, this place will no doubt be a runaway success to yapping fools who buy into a supposed exclusivity and irony.
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