Sneaky Pete sounds like a child molester who lures unsuspecting kids into his woodland shack on the promise of Haribo and endless repeats of Hannah Montana. Only once the rickety door’s slammed shut do they realise that Pete has lived up to his epithet once again. Those kids should have twigged really that a hobo’s forest lair was unlikely to have a working television. Hindsight truly is a bitch.
Sneaky Pete’s in Edinburgh is an equally dank and dingy shack, a mausoleum-turned-nightclub whose walls excrete sweat, sex and Jägermeister. The air is as stale as a long-haul flight, or possibly a long haul at the bottom of a collapsed mine shaft. Sneaky’s isn’t Sneaky Pete’s; it’s Dirty Pete’s; Dusty Pete’s; I-Wish-My-Girlfriend-Was-This-Filthy Pete’s. On the face of it, Sneaky Pete’s should be the worst nightclub in Edinburgh. Which raises just one question:
Why is it so f***ing good then?
What is it that makes Sneaky Pete’s so utterly awesome? I don’t know.
Why is it that come one o’clock on a Friday night, one gets the insatiable urge to jump down there for some action? I’m not sure – possibly the tonic wine?
How is it that by 3am you’re completely swedged off your tits, even though you weren’t packing when you left the house? Er…no comment.
Why does the Cowgate outside Sneaky’s descend into such a good-natured riot at the end of the night? I couldn’t tell you mate.
What sort of music do they play in Sneaky’s? Can’t remember, but I think it might go like this: ‘W__ow_wow_wow W__ow_wow_wow’. Is that any help?
No, not really. Anyway, what like are the bar staff? Um….pretty…I think.
And the toilets? There are toilets in Sneaky’s?
Why is it that it’s impossible to craft a lucid review of Sneaky Pete’s? Could it be anything to do with the shit-faced state you invariably find yourself in upon stumbling through the door? Could it also be because said state of shit-facedom is then heightened by downing several Jäger Bombs at the bar? And more to the point, why does no one drink anything other than Jägermeister or Red Stripe in this gaff? Also, why are large chunks of your night subsequently erased from all memory – have the sneaky Sneaky’s staff been stealing glasses from the neighbouring Three Sisters and neglecting to rinse out the Rohypnol that’s in the dregs?
How can a club so filthy be so much fun? Why is it that even when you go to Sneaky’s with good intentions, you end up going home with a partner in each pocket and an androgynous stranger under your arm? Why is your lothario flatmate always so eager to chat Spanish at every clubber blessed with a mild sun tan? And why does it all feel so god damn right at the time?
So many questions, so few answers. The only way to get to the bottom of this dilemma is by conducting a thorough field test. When next Friday rolls around, this calls for digging out the Govan Champagne and preparing to haemorrhage yet more brain cells in the interests of undertaking essential cultural research. Come 1am, the field test obliges you to hit Sneaky’s, and hit that bitch hard – give it the full Raoul Moat treatment. But when you’re knocking back those Jägers at the bar, spare a moment to recall this sentence in this blog. And then prepare to forget all about it, as well as every other detail of your evening – that’s just the way it goes in there. If you’re too drunk to get into Sneaky’s, you really are too drunk, but if you’re capable of remembering Sneaky’s, you clearly weren’t drunk enough.