08/09/14: It was Monday, Joan Rivers was dead, and we wanted to drown ourselves in drink surrounded by statues of nude classical cock.
Where else would we totter gin-steady in our stilettos but jewel of Soho, The Yard? Strutting catwalk-like down the bright entrance avenue of glittering lights and marble Davids, we banged our entrance into the beautiful courtyard itself by exploding fizzing pyrotechnics from our specially crafted bra a la Katy Perry.
Earning one of the venue’s signature cocktails, and the grope of a cock or two to boot, for our efforts, we slipped from lap to lap of the prettiest, most debonair, and the devilishly devious of Soho’s incendiary glamour-lair, before leaving them crying out for more – watch and learn, girls – as we soared up to our spiritual home: the smoking loft.
We were soon presiding over all who entered The Yard’s foliage-laden empire, beckoning the cutest boys up with red-painted nail, before the evening ended with a Kate Moss tribute, leaning backwards over the balcony smoking a cigarette as the muscled Brazilian barmen licked tequila from our neck. Another Monday night at The Yard; Joan, this was all for you.
57 Rupert Street, Soho, W1D 7PL
Words by Jackie Jockstrap
Photos by Mark Storey