Ninetyeight Bar and Lounge (Bar)

Best for: Escapist relaxation in Shoreditch.

Great: Original cocktails and free novelty pens.

Doctor’s notes: My patient Greg Hall awoke three days ago after a two-week coma. How it occurred is pure mystery. His fortnight of slumber was a peculiar period. It was very peculiar indeed. His bemusing blackouts were riddled with enigmatic exclamations of ‘Lavito’ and delirious, deluded murmurs of ‘...edible walls?!’ Clearly he had been harangued by harrowing hallucinations. This is what intrigued me. What was behind his random ramblings? When I interviewed him yesterday, I finally slid into my subject’s subconscious; it was a lucid lair. The following transcript of Hall’s testimony is yet another illuminating entry into the Fluid medical journal…

‘…I felt myself falling aimlessly, hurtling through a veil of eternal blackness. Then I awoke. Well I thought I had. Dazed and a little confused I found myself in Shoreditch, of all bloody places. Bizarrely, I was really craving a cocktail. I wanted one bad. But trudging through a blanket of slushy ice on a bitter winter’s night, everything looked mundane, murky and banal. Listless, generic bars languished, miserably failing to illuminate the gloomily lit street of Curtain Road. I wanted to draw back the drapes of this boring boulevard and go back to bed, preferably with a refreshing mixture.

Dejected and with my head down I passed another anonymous, brick addled building. It was lucky that my cranium was facing south as I caught something in the corner of my eye. Gleaming, enchanting me was an ornate seductive spiral staircase; suddenly it yanked me down into a mysterious underbelly.

Serenely I floated into a decadently delicious, salubrious speakeasy. It went by the name of Ninetyeight Bar & Lounge. I’d gone from obscurity to opulence. Before me was a welcoming warm woman called Kath, adorned in 1970s chic. Like a glamorous stand-in for Saint Peter, she beckoned me in.

Was I dead? Had I arrived at Bar Heaven? I think maybe I had. Looking back it makes sense; Shoreditch was purgatory, while Ninetyeight was a higher plain. The bar was simply beautiful; angel wings loomed above this neon lit nest. Superbly, it was stocked with organic, bountiful bottles of vanilla vodka and vintage 1972 Glenn Rossie Whisky. Unique inventions invitingly flowed from that hub. A luscious, lavender Lavito filled with cherry and rum made an ordinary Mojito seem archaic. One whisky-based drink even fused a Sunday roast into a glass. But this was just for starters; I was engulfed in an endearing emporium of spectacular splendour.

The white walls were wonderfully awash with sweets to eat, and splattered with toy aeroplanes and even beer cans. In this realm of quirky intricacy every time I looked I saw something new; marble pillars, marvellous mirrors, grand pianos, statues of dogs, leopard skin sofas, roman busts and toy trains that served alcohol.

But it wasn’t empty in here. This palace of pleasure was filled with laughter from the multitude of duly dressed people whole heartedly enjoying themselves. They were people like me who had come in from the cold to escape from the punishment of purgatory. It seemed a little ridiculous that the music that emanated was relatively sombre house music, why would I dream that? On the bright side at least Voodoo Ray by A Guy Called Gerald came on.

Ninetyeight was a joyous joint of irreverence and relaxation. But like Cinderella going to the ball, Kath informed me that unfortunately I had to leave this wonderland at 11, for her gratifying grotto had to shut. As a parting gift she gave me a pen. It wasn’t any old pen; it was a miniature sheep that baaed when its head was pressed.

I didn’t want to go back to the hinterland of gloomy East London. ‘How can I escape?’ I asked Kath, ‘Just tap the sheep quill on the head’ she replied. And so I did. With the push of a thumb and a cheeky baa, I was blurted back to reality with a jolt here in this hospital bed, staring at these four walls very drained and very miffed. It was all make-believe. What a trip.

But was it really a dream? The eerie thing I’ve discovered since waking is that very same woolly marker perched underneath my pillow.’...read more