A venue who's name is based on a fictional character conjured by a business dude with a cunning marketing strategy. I hasten to add it's cunning for less than two seconds unless you're into blatant sales driven entertainment without any actual passion for the 'art', man. The deco is faux boho vintage, lacks authenticity and any substance or depth. Aimed to serve and sponge from equally vacuous middle of the road dreggs with cocaine blushed dispossable income. The kinda folk who find the location dizzying, and are easily seduced by it's hip history that has since long gone elsewhere leaving a classy stale smell of fart, detergent and beer blended with fabreeze. No, the odor definition sounds too cool. Can 'venue' smell be cool? Hell yeah! It's, well, maybe scented with those overly fragrant candles from Sainsbury's with a pretty pattern around the glass holder. Certainly isn't any Jo Malone fare. It's actually an alright joint. Pschyzo moment, sorry. Some genuine cool kids do perform and DJ there. Girls - it's a great place to show off your perky nipples, or clit piercing (nice wax babes) - just for a laugh, hey. Boys - it's hot for your tight cock-hugging tousers, or those really twatty jeans that sit half way down your skinny 'I lack a personallity' butt. But, ideally it's the ultimate joint to get piss drunk and fall up [sic] the stairs before fisting the security - literally. Guranteed to bring a bit of drama to the stage. We say - go - make something of it. Enjoy.