Is That Your Doorbitch?

One of the reasons I don't like going to West End clubs and bars is because I hate being scrutinized by some overmade-up, bottle blonde doorbitch, tripping on the power of being able to select who is cool or trendy enough to socialize with the Z-list celebrities these bars usually attract. Plus, they're usually teeming with bad, 'do you know who I am' drunks. Been there, done that.
Living close to Brixton and Clapham offers a wide selection of bars to hang out in locally, without the hassle of the West End's selective door policies. Or so it would seem. The exception to that rule is the bar Sand.
Sand is owned by Leslie 'Lips Gone Wrong' Ash, and husband Lee 'I Didn't Touch Her Guv. Honest' Chapman. It's a chi-chi bar at the top of Acre Lane, or the beginning of Clapham, depending on your level of postcode snobbery. I've had a couple of nights out there, always spoiled by the effort it takes to get in. Anyways, it'd been some time since my last visit, so I'd obviously forgotten their ability to make you feel like the person that got picked last for the school team.
Last night some friends and I met up to go for a few drinks to celebrate the end of my year of studying. Just as we got to Sand, we saw a group of white people, hand over their cash, and enter. I'd looked at the website, and it said £5 to get in after 9pm. When myself and Lyn approached the doorman, he asked if we were on the guestlist. Cue puzzled faces. "It's a private party. I'll see if you can come in, but it depends on the..." You guessed it, doorbitch. She checked out on the overmade up hag appearance, but bucked the stereotype on the blonde part. She came out the bar, didn't even spit on us, then unbelievably, applied some more make-up to her obviously botoxed lips, and went back inside. How. Rude.
Looking through the window, like the field nigger who can't go into the Big House, it was obvious from the people sitting around at tables, that there was no fucking private party.
Sand, is notorious for not admitting 'too many blacks'. Martha Daley's cousin told her before she got there, that we wouldn't get in. Lo and behold.
Doorbitch came back outside again. I asked her if she was responsible for admitting people and that we had been waiting for her to decide if she would admit us. "Sorry, I thought he'd already told you that it was guestlist only." "Yes, but he said it was up to you whether you would let us in or not. Which is why we've been standing out here for ten minutes. I just would have appreciated it if you had had the decency to actually come and speak to us yourself. Goodnight."
How dare these people operate like this in Brixton unchecked? It is common knowledge that they are blatantly racist. They don't even try to hide it. I'm mad as hell and I ain't gonna take it anymore. This isn't the end of the story.