I don't really want to weigh in on the whole controversy surrounding the cartoons of the Prophet Mohamed – I'm not even sure how to spell his name correctly, and besides that, I don't want effigies of me burnt throughout the Middle East – at least no more than are being burnt already. But yesterday I read that a Muslim organisation in Indonesia were said to be “looking for Danes on the streets.” I don't know how many Danish people are wandering around Java and Bali at the moment, but I don't imagine they'll be carrying a smorgasbord and singing “Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen.” And without those essential clues, how do you recognise a Dane? For example, one of these men is Danish:

Now, I have my own suspicions which it is – mainly because I've already done the research – but I wouldn't like to make a beheading decision based on this evidence alone. Would you? No. You wouldn't.

It's boring to go on about reviewing bars, but as that's all I'm doing at the moment you can hardly expect me to do anything else. “Write about what you know,” said some influential writer, at some point, a piece of advice which was then nicked by teachers running writing workshops and passed off as their own wisdom. Anyway, last night I went to Mayfair for a wallet-busting trawl of posh West End bars. Our night ended at the Hilton, which has 3 bars: Zeta, Windows, and Trader Vics. Zeta has an extraordinary “non-alcoholic” section on their menu, where one drink description begins: “A delicious combination of banana, parsley -” Whoah! What did you say? “I said banana, parsley…” I thought you did. I'll have a beer, thanks.

Jenny and I were looking fairly shabby, but we tried to get into Windows, which is the posh bar on the 26th floor. Our entrance was blocked by a gentleman who explained that, after 11pm, there's a £7.50 cover charge per person. I pointed out to him that it was only 10.59pm. “Yes, as I say, sir, if you were listening,” he said, playing for time – nice trick – “there is a £7.50 cover charge after 11pm, which you will be expected to pay, if you wish to –” the clock ticked past the hour, and we sighed, and we went downstairs to Trader Vic's. “Good evening sir,” said the man at the door, “there is a cover charge of £7 after 11pm.” Cheaper than Windows, I pointed out. “Yes. And if you have snack, there is no cover charge.” “We'll have a snack,” said Jenny, grabbing the menu. We were ushered through to a roomful of wankers, where we had two ludicrous cocktails. I had “Falkland Islands Warmer”, purely on account of the description: A concoction of Drambuie served in the Falkland Islands when those good people have a chill and are upset. This is still making me laugh, some 17 hours later.

The unappetizing, greasy snacks were more expensive than either the drinks, or the £7 cover charge we'd managed to avoid. “But at least they're not taking our money for nothing,” said Jenny. The man at the door could have given us a third option, though: “I'm sorry, sir, there is a £7 cover charge, unless you promise to stay here for 3 hours and get completely muntered.” But he didn't, of course. We accepted that we'd been conned, paid up gracefully, and went home.