Peacock Bar

148 Falcon Road, Clapham Junction), SW11

Blokes the nation over will instinctively recall, with great aptitude, the televisual advertisement that was created by the Carlsberg beer company in which it was claimed that if said company were to start promoting nightclubs, “they would probably be the best nightclubs in the world”. [PING - on go the lights in the male mind] This utopian vision offered a world where mawkish doormen admired grubby footwear, where bright stylish interiors were populated exclusively by ravishingly beautiful robo-women getting their collective groove on, and where waiting for a taxi was as likely as prohibition. But everyone knows that Carlsberg is probably not the best beer in the world - not by a long shot - and if they were to ‘do’ nightclubs they would probably be a little bit like The Peacock. Actually, a lot like The Peacock.

The Peacock is probably not the best bar in the world - not by a long shot - but it does serve Carlsberg (probably), the doorstaff are wholesomely cordial, and the disco interior is populated almost exclusively by women ‘attempting’ to get their collective groove on. Which means, chaps, that this critique is pretty much over as far as you’re concerned. There’s beer and the ratio of lads to ladies is about 1 to 4, therefore it IS the best nightclub in the world. Or at least in Clapham Junction. So let you now go forth and reprezent da brotherhood, good sirs. Sidle up to the bar, place a firm angular elbow uponst it, and with a rakish wink of your eye show these fine fillies what first-rate fettle you’re in. If you are arriving in large groups, however, do so in timed pairs, so as not to arouse suspicion, only intrigue.

Right. Ladies! True, the Peacock Bar is literally on the wrong side of the tracks but it is still very much to your liking. It has already won various online awards, despite its youthful existence, and the reputation of its owner precedes it; he was part of the original (but now mostly decommissioned) Living, Dog Star, and Mishmash venues. This small, erstwhile English tavern is like wandering into the combined imaginations of Matt Lucas and David Walliams: very camp, very loud, and very gaudy with obvious interminglings between the “Yeh but no but”s and the “But I’m a lady” element.

Burlesque is as girly as hair dye and Maltesers, so let’s hike up our skirts, parade around in our undergarments, and get giddy with giggles and merriment before stumbling off to Infernos or the Clapham Grand, only to return an hour later after realising we were having a better time at the Peacock.

Peacock feathers, golden busts, tight corsets, nipple tassels, wobbly boobs, fleshy arses, 6ft projections of Cary Grant and Jane Fonda, and a pulpit - yes, a pulpit - from whence the DJ pumps out Katrina & The Waves, Culture Beat and a plethora of Roxettes, Banaramas and C&C Music Factories. This social experiment is absolutely meant for the fairer sex. This study delves into the correlation between ladies of the intoxication and their impenetrable forcefield against music from the 80s. That, and the rampant whooping that seems to signify they are having what is sometimes called ‘a good time’. For the gentlemanly sex, however, the novelty is nowhere near as prolific.

The stage is indeed a little low and hardly big enough to accommodate the birdcage and a water fountain needed for these gorgeous divas to pull off their Dita Von Teese moves. However, this version of burlesque/cabaret is not supper club. It’s much naughtier and spunkier than that; especially as audience participation is actively encouraged. The show is brief and would possibly benefit from (a) some Coyote Ugly maneuvers on the bar, (b) less songs, (c) more nakedness. Please. Pretty please. With tassels on. Once the shutters obscure the large windows and the ex-Lost Vagueness artistes begin their performance, it’s time for the peeping Tims outside to come inside because if you wanna win it, Raymond, you gotta be in it.

Saturday nights are very wild, very early, and well before the first act appears the entire venue is a few sherries to the wind. At this point the ladies start forming two queues: one to the lavatories and the other towards the lonely pole in the centre of the room. The dearth of ladies toilets (wee faster, girls!) is equal to the dearth of poles, and not the Eastern European kind (although that would certainly add a new dimension to this circus). The pole is very popular and many girls attempt to grab it simultaneously. As early as 9pm the first knicker-clad inebriate has mounted the pole and is displaying a whole a catalogue of wardrobe malfunctions, much to the delight of chortling onlookers. By 9.36pm, the first chap - must be an Aussie - attempts to mimic her. The most popular move is the ‘jump n spin’. Hair pulling, cat scratching and eye gouging may follow. Daniel Day-Lewis, get your tuxedo; surely, there will be blood.

The populous on this plain of pleasure, this tundra of tumultuousness, is mostly ferocious packs of hen nights, sometimes three at once. Some hens opt for modified wedding dresses that are so sexy they could stun a priest at 50 praises and there’s a healthy tally of people just milling around in their pants (some of whom really shouldn’t, not in public).

Whereas Saturdays are all about celebrations - birthday, hen, stag, office, all there, in its pants - the rest of the week is a subdued calm-before-the-storm café atmosphere replete with wifi during the day and 2-4-1 cocktail magnetism in the evenings; Ratpack crooning Thursdays and live opera Sundays. Nice.

Whilst we’re on the subject of bathing in a vat of liquid joy, the £7 cocktails are very quaffable - the Bramble being a particularly potent potion - and the early start of happy hour may have something to do with the level of fun that is clearly being had. The barmen can be occasionally surly so don’t look them straight in the eye, they can sense fear. Tip: the martini glasses are small and spillage-prone, so go large if there’s movement afoot.

This is probably not the best bar/nightclub/pub/cabaret show in the world, but it does display much potential. Once the balcony starts banging out the proposed classic Ibiza house and once the (minor) celebrity-compered poker nights have begun flipping decks and once the speed dating bonanza has properly landed, then, THEN, it’ll have much more to shout about than simply saucy Saturdays.