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Harry's Nightlife Reviews: THE GOLDEN SHEAF

Harry's Nightlife Reviews: THE GOLDEN SHEAF


If you have ever visited the Golden Sheaf hotel in Double Bay, you most likely suffer from an acute sense of self-loathing. The figurative self-flagellation that is a trip to The Sheaf reeks of desperation and the desire to hook up with 17-year-olds who are pretending to be 18.

Multiple iterations of the physical embodiment of Lynx Africa live and thrive on the Sheaf dancefloor. Their sweat stained and poorly ironed white linen shirts gyrate awkwardly to the sounds of a DJ that does not take crowd requests. Everyone is either ‘fine’ or ‘OK’ with the music at the Sheaf. It’s a barrage of generic pop songs from 2011 that make you go “oh I remember this!” Just as one song starts to bore you, it will sloppily transition into another timeless banger which will make you go “ohhh I remember this too!”. The cycle continues.

The Sheaf DJ will masterfully deny your inebriated mind time to question whether Akon truly was ‘trying to find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful (damn girl).’However, before your #woke 2017 mind can catch up with ‘Sexy Bitch’s’ ethical quandaries the song will most likely be replaced by the dulcet tones of Robin Thiccccc.

After spending 10 minutes on the dancefloor at The Sheaf, someone will no doubt yell into your ear, ‘Oi LET'S GO UPSTAIRS!’ This is a trap. Your ‘friend’ will lead you through the packed bar area into a ‘cool’ upstairs garden thing where it takes 20 minutes to line up for a drink of watered down piss. (The word ‘friend’ here has been put in quotations because no real friend would take you to The Sheaf. The word ‘cool’ has been put into quotations both because the notion of cool is subjective and because the upstairs bar at The Sheaf is objectively uncool.)

Upstairs at the Sheaf is very similar to being in a Polo Ralph Lauren outlet store. It has never been proven, but it is rumored that if you don’t wear a Button up Polo shirt that your mum got you for your 18th birthday to the upstairs bar in The Sheaf, you will be extradited back to the western suburbs by the bouncers.

I realise that this is a very male-centric critique of Sheaf fashion but I honestly couldn’t tell you what the girls wear. Some of them wear skirts with a nice top, others wear jeans with a nice top. A lot of them wear chokers.

After you have consumed a sufficient number of vodka lime sodas, you will reach the high point of your night at The Sheaf. Leaving.  Every time you exit, the exact same sequence of events will happen. You will see an old school friend and briefly ask them what they are doing at university. You will not remember their answer. You will see exactly two police cars parked directly outside. You will see someone arguing unsuccessfully with a bouncer to be let back in. You will see a drunk girl crying slumped against the wall outside. Her friend will wait with her until the Uber arrives, at which point she will attempt to re-enter, be denied, cry and leave.

Finally, you will make a promise you yourself, “I am never going back to The Sheaf again.” This is wise. Treat yourself with some respect and go drink alone at your local RSL instead.

Final Rating: 1/5 - shit night out.

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