The Man in BLACK

I've walked past BLACK on Albert Road more times than I care to recall. I've never been in there though, until last night, for one of two reasons. First is the look of the place, it has the outward appearance of being a tad too posh to let a pleb like me in. Second, and more important, is that it's usually shut.

However, last weekend, having grown tired of The Wonkey Donkey (next door) and seeing it open, The Boy Smithy and The Shar decided to give it a try. They liked it so much that we sailed straight past the Donkey last night without a second glance (it's all owned by the same people anyway).

Inside, once my eyes got accustomed to the gloom (it's quite dimly lit) I noticed there's only one beer pump on the bar (but it's Staropramen, so that's OK) and realised the nice piano music wasn't piped; there was a guy playing a baby grand at the back, entertaining us with classical medleys and snippets of film soundtracks.

So we sat, we chilled, we talked the usual rubbish, and time meandered by. OK, so it might not be the best bar in the world but it's got a nice intimate feel and, most importantly, us getting-to-be-old-fogeys could chat without fear our conversation would be drowned out by the Plop Idol winner.

At least, that is, until it shut at midnight and we went to Scandals. Ahem.