For those who never really took an interest, Tiger Tiger will be best remembered for its bomb. In a foiled June 2007 terrorist plot, a device was found outside the two-storey nightclub just off Piccadilly Circus. An ambulance crew, attending an incident nearby, discovered a car ventilating smoke, and when they peered inside, found 60 litres of petrol, several gas cylinders, and bags of nails.
Had it been possible to avoid casualties, most clubbers would have considered the bomb’s detonation to be an improvement on London’s nightlife. A rare jihadist PR coup, even.
For a quarter of a century, Tiger Tiger was street furniture, a landmark, a snaking queue that you passed on your way to better places. There but for the grace of God. The line was always a menagerie of people you met on the very worst nights out: underage girls, leery older blokes, confused tourists who had googled ‘nightclub west end’, lubricated call centre workers, oily office managers having their bi-annual fun, big groups of lads about to be ejected by the bouncers for ‘not bringing ladies’.
Any sense that the normal-waged sort might come in from the provinces to have a night in the West End is pretty much over
Inside, Tiger Tiger’s user base communed with the distilled essence of corporate West End.
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