The ‘Whore Of New York’ proceeds to perform a sex act on himself with the neck of a vodka bottle. The stomach-churning act finishes with Rose drinking from the vodka bottle and spraying the contents over guests seated at the nearby tables.
By Rose Harvey
The time is 11.30pm, it’s a cold weekday evening in London’s Soho and down a litter-strewn alleyway, a fashionable crowd has gathered on the pavement outside an anonymous-looking wooden door.
The outfits being showcased are achingly fashionable. The super-thin girls wear barely-there dresses which clearly cost the earth. Each has painted her lips in what appears to be the same shade of scarlet.
The men are foppish, well-spoken and clad in designer suits. They eye the girls with the detached insouciance only the privileged can carry off.
Welcome to The Box, London’s hottest new nightspot, favoured by royals and A-listers alike. Conservatively billed as a ‘theatre of varieties’, The Box, in truth, offers the cheapest of thrills for the most expensive of tastes.
Prince Harry, his cousins Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie, Kate Moss, Emma Watson and Keira Knightley have all partied here until dawn.
I have heard The Box puts on the most sexually explicit show in town. What goes on inside has reportedly shocked even the most jaded of seen-it-all-before socialites.
But few reporters have ever managed to get past the ‘clipboard doorkeepers’, who control access to the club, to offer an eyewitness account of what goes on inside.
Tonight, I have managed to get a ticket. One of my friends is having a birthday party and we have each agreed to pay a £50 entrance fee on the door.
Can this place really be as decadent as it is billed, I wonder, as I arrive outside The Box, or is it just over-excited hype?
What I see during the subsequent few hours leaves me in no doubt. For the ‘erotic entertainment’ I encounter is not exciting, edgy or cool. It is, quite simply, hardcore pornography of the most repulsive kind.
That such a place could have become a favoured haunt of royalty and celebrities is beyond belief.
The night begins as my friends and I are kept waiting at the club’s doors for 30 minutes, despite arriving early.
The door policy is super-strict and a tousle-haired, sharply-dressed man in his early 20s steps outside to survey the crush of people every ten minutes or so to decide who he will let in — and who he won’t.
By the time I am ushered through, I feel pathetically grateful to have passed his test. After all, most of our fellow revellers have had to spend thousands of pounds to reserve a table, or are famous enough to have had their names placed on a guest list. Even then, they are not guaranteed access.
Table prices start at £1,000 on a week-night, rising to more than £3,000 at weekends.