Hooters

I'm Nottingham born and bred despite what little my accent may betray. Yet despite this I've never really been on a 'night out' in Nottingham.

On a weekend back to the homeland with the missus and bridesmaids to try our wedding meal, a friend of Cambridge Girl In Preston said he'd show us round a bit.

But we cared not for that. The first thing we wanted to do was go to Hooters.

And yes, by 'we,' I refer to myself, my wife-to-be, two other women and a guy three of us had only just met.

It's always a rowdy night at Hooters, right?

Wrong.

I'm not sure I've ever found a building or its contents as depressing as I did Hooters.

Apart from the fact that one drink cost me £3.55, the place was just awful on every level.

The girls looked like they had somehow been airbrushed in person. And some of them clearly considered this 'their living,' as at least one of them had giant fake breasts stapled onto their beampole frames.

Despite this, they were all utterly miserable. I don't think I've ever been less enthusiastic about seeing a scantily clad woman.

The whole place reeked of sleaze (although that shouldn't have been unexpected). But the problem with it was, it felt quite unlike a strip club.

Strip clubs are a niche market. They know what they're about and what you go there to do, so they carry themselves with a certain level of class.

Hooters is a poor man's strip club. People go there because they haven't got the guts to go to a real strip club, and they ogel women who have no class, but still have enough class not to actually get naked.

It's purgatory, basically.

And I for one don't care to repeat the experience.