Hardy’s

Arrogant door staff, they are so disrespectful, don't listen to people, and turf people out for no good reason, the door staff need to learn manners, learn how to handle people properly, I don't think any of them are trained to standards required, they just like to throw their weight around and pick on people. I wasn't even let back in to collect my handbag, phone and keys or tell family that the arrogant door man would let me go back in, I had to wait until I could see a member of our party through the window to tell them to bring my things out for me.

Hardys is so bad it can feel like they’re doing it on purpose to get back at you for an undisclosed crime in your past. Either that or the whole thing is part of a secret-​camera TV show to test people’s tolerance levels. The music, all flashy pop sludge from the dying decades of the 20^th century, will ring a bell as it most likely poisoned your childhood. Everything else about Hardys is worse.
This is one of those places I’ll never be chums with. The men are all gormless, swaggering thugs, the women look like porn stars who fell down stairs. When I visited Saturday evening, the barman was so spectacularly rude it was almost funny, well it would’ve been had he not been ranting back at us from the till like a man who has just discovered his girlfriend foursomed with you, his best mate and a horse. By the way, that was Saturday July 3^rd 2010. If you’re the manager and you’re reading this, see who it was from the rota and sack him. Then I’ll buy you a pint. Not at Hardys though. You know why.

Mathew Street is horrible. You know this. I know this. I knew this. Yet still I went to Hardy’s. Show me somewhere a) I can be served alcohol and b) I won’t need a tetanus after and it takes a lot to raise my general disapproval into utter repugnance. Congratulations Hardy’s.
Simply trying to push past the swarm of tattoos, shaved heads and wiggling, jiggling flab rolls of various oxygen-​thieves who wouldn’t be attractive even if they were thin, to get to the bar gave me the idea this place may not be my cup of tea. The impossibly unpleasant barman verbally threatening me because I gave him the correct change and held up a nonexistent queue put the cream in that tea.
Seemingly created just to fetishise misery, the whole place reeks of an undesirable smell, a goulash of which ever knock-​off scent was being sold at the market that morning and the liberal use of a sickly air freshener, presumably to cover the collective air of despair and desperation.
After I pushed through another mass of bodies, who looked like they must have got into the gene pool when the lifeguard wasn’t looking, to find the toilets, I had to queue outside whilst waiting for a drug deal to finish inside. The bouncer literally two feet next to me simply shrugged.
Presumably so people can stretch their child maintenance money twice as far, there are enticing ‘two for one’ posters outside, but this applied only to warm Foster’s bottles and I couldn’t really say anything about the music or décor, as my senses had piqued themselves into numbness.
Its a good job I failed my science GCSE, else I think I’d have spent the morning devising a way to channel pure hate through my keyboard, breaking that, the Internet and everything in between. God, I hated this place.